Inside Her Roses | A Poetry Collection

Art

She was so devoid of color
She had no idea what it meant
Her contours lay contradicted
To her prim and proper polished demeanor

He fought to be the paintbrush
That defined her rigid flaws
His signature strokes like a lovers touch
That she was never ready for

But her canvas saddened day by day
From his scarring bristle brush
Her curves of shame dropped tears of bitter ink
As it covered the marks he left on display