I'm an artist,
With a built-in canvas,
It's the rough skin,
That I was born with,
And its truly a sight to see.
It calls to me,
With a faltering passion,
To paint with my hands,
And the soft acrylics,
I made from your tears.
The fabric of my canvas,
Is the finest of all,
Sewn from every thread of insecurity there is,
And the brush I use,
Is of highest delicacy,
As it was born from the sharp ends of my nails.
Such a pretty girl,
With all these scars,
And bruises,
That cloud your form,
Like a foggy night.
And in this moment,
With every breath that whispers,
I'm an artist that comes out to paint the sun.
YOU ARE READING
To The Introverts
PoetryAt the unforgiving eyes of the world, I lay here with a pen in hand, To write about the secrets I keep, The untold stories of an introvert.
