Canvas shook violently
as my fingertips scrubbed against it, vigorously
red, peach, black, white
decorated the aisle of overwhelm
when the specimen reached
its destiny, I stepped back
not caring about the stains, spills,
and chaos of colors
slid down with my back
against the opposite wall,
as my legs gave up, my head in my hands,
you might be wondering
then look at the painting.
-she said to the wind thudding against the window.
YOU ARE READING
THE GIRL WHO SPOKE POETRY
PoetryThe thing about pain is, it makes you question.. what makes you human? ____________ **Not cliche, I repeat, Not cliche, WARNING, not cliche**
