You create art.
All beautiful.
Crusty paint is under
Your nails
And on your joints
And on your
Skin.
And when you smear
The colors on skin
Your suddenly,
In your eyes,
Beautiful.
Now a piece of artwork.
Now with meaning.
Once a blank canvas,
Now something with meaning!
People now look at you
Like something worth
To look
At.
You feel special.
And once the
Paint is gone.
When it washes off
And your skin is bare again.
Your blank as a canvas.
YOU ARE READING
Hands covered in paint.
RandomDip your hands into multicolored paint and write the words with your fingertips. (I don't know what I'm doing. I guess this poetry stuff. Leave good things! ~Windy)
