A Tortured Artist
The beauty on the canvas,
Doesn't reflect his mind.
He creates in colors,
But in his head, he's blind.
The sickness from within,
Comes out in bursts of passion.
While it passionately takes over,
Filling his mind with poison.
He's painting in red now,
From the pallet of his veins,
On the canvas of his skin,
He paints through his pains.
Paint mixed with blood,
A note in the form of a masterpiece.
His beauty is dead,
And his pain will now cease.
YOU ARE READING
Anxiety & Apathy: A Collection Of Poems
Poetry- A Collection Of Poems - I tear myself to pieces And hope to be whole. ⚠ TRIGGER WARNING ⚠ Contains imagery and subjects of: - Self harm - Suicide - Disordered eating - Mental illness
