𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.

poem #O1

I feel angry. 

That anger had been taken out on the canvas before me.

The surface has been touched by a brush as sharp as my words can be.

I'm shocked.

It surprised me, seeing what I created out of my anger. 

I see strokes of red before me and almost feel proud of myself.

Strangely, and blankly, I begin to paint without a thought.

More and more red.

It almost felt satisfying to see, but it wasn't exactly a sight to sore eyes.

In fact, it began to make my eyes sore.

I had created this only to wake up the next morning and see it again.

I feel disgusted.

There was now a permanent reminder of the worst side of me. 

A resemblance to an old, used chopping board with many scars.

The card that you scratched for a fortune, only to be disappointed with the outcome.

But an artwork is never finished.