Under the reviarea is where my body lies. Broken and twisted, the glimmering crimson cascading in the shimmering moonlight. Distorted beyond repair, I sit waiting to be discovered. A hidden monument to my grief. The crystalline line the area with my color, complementing the black walls and tattered concrete. A painting celebrating my melancholy and despair. The public display a wonder to all who look upon it. The critic calls to question the sincerity behind it the casual compares to their own self without knowing the meaning the artist understands but resents it. I could not please all in life, seems so is true in art as well. In downpour I am displayed still. In sweltering temperatures I stand true. In arctic snow I remain a constant. A reminder of tenderness and life, under the reviarea. No stain to be found. Only paint. Broken and distorted but not perverted; the meaning convayed at last.
JE LEEST
Lackluster writing...bad writer.
PoëzieConfessional poems. These are how I feel about myself and the things around me. These poems mean a lot to me. I may not be a good writer but I wanted at least anonymously to share them.
