I like to draw, to paint.
But my creativity only shows at night.
This creativity releases my pain,
Even though it isn't quite "Right."
I'm an artist,
My body is my canvas.
Streaked with blood, my antidepressant,
Red lines, straight lines, crossing my wrists.
Some are old and some are new,
My razor, my paintbrush, is stained with paint,
I haven't told anyone that those stains are new,
My paint is wearing thin, and my razor is faint.
I'm an artist,
My wrists are my sketchbook.
I used a straightedge to perfect my sketches,
To give my art a new look.
But the paint is starting to dry,
My paintbrush is too,
Every tear I've tried to cry,
Every painting I ever made...
It was made for you.
YOU ARE READING
My Scars Exposed #wattys2018
Poetry"We've all got our horrors and our demons to fight. But how can I win when I'm paralyzed?"-Bring Me The Horizon Poetry has been a big part of my life for a long time now. I express my feelings on these pages (screens?) because sometimes it's hard to...
