art

23 1 0
                                    

"this isn't art." they said, they didn't understand

i cry as crimson paint drips from the blade in my hand

yet maybe they are right, i begin to think

the skin on my wrists turns from red to pink

i hold a pencil in my healing, tranquil hand

and begin to draw, with possibilities unplanned.


bittersweet » poetryWhere stories live. Discover now