They use to call me Mona Lisa
while I use to feel like Vincent's "Skull."
Now I'm stuck between Georgia O'Keefe,
and sometimes I feel like a Picasso.
The contrast in my mood is stunning to the eye;
one corner I'm the light sprinkled on leaves
the other, I'm the corner with a hidden chair
in darkness, I survive by hiding
while others see the light.
The focal point will draw your focus
and paint will erase the hidden truth.
I set down the brush,
can't look at myself,
and forget what I'm drawing for.
My paint is meant to show my skin;
my skin is meant to show my paint.
Neither seem so true right now
so instead I set down the brush
and wait.
YOU ARE READING
Poems of Death
Poezja***TRIGGER WARNING*** Feel close to death? Maybe you're not quite as close as you think. These are poems I wrote for me and people I love; some were gifts and others are just my thoughts. These are my own words and images. Although this is for mysel...
