She was the artist who painted in tears.
Her paintbrush crumbled from the weight of the droplets that she allowed it to hold.
Her canvas lay tattered and ruined in her hands,
No longer strong enough to be her shield.
For the poets pen seemed to double as a dagger,
It slashed through her defenses and stole the paper she had used to dry her eyes with.
He had robbed her of her inspiration,
Of her one last hope at happiness.
A poet is only as good as his writings,
And what is writing without a story to tell?
YOU ARE READING
Poems for the Pained
PoetryA collection of words both happy and sad strewn together to create awful poetry.
