Hell is many things.
It is torture to my soul, it is a dagger in my heart as I watch the world I love die in flames.
Hell is many things.
It is a stinging sunburn, red and angry, peeling with every touch. It is your friends as they turn from you and walk away as if you never had a connection.
Hell is many things, but above all else, it is blank.
There are no raging fires, there are no screeching fates, no tortured souls screaming and crying out. It is a blank white canvas stretching for miles, with nothing in sight except for a chair. A white chair, it is, sitting innocently upon the white floor.
On top of a white table by the chair, is a plant, a small one, but after seeing nothing but white, the green feels better.
It is minimalism, at its finest, blank and open. As an artist my hands itch to fill the canvas in my reach, but there are no colors, no words, no brushes to spread my love.
It is just blank, and in my anguish I cry. I cry, for no longer can my words soothe others, no longer may my art reach to those that need it. My art no longer be discovered by the people that require the twisted wording.
In the overworld, my art will soon cease to exist, forgotten by those that once praised it.
Hell is many things, but above all the things it could be, it is blank.
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Life Through A Seaglass Lens
PoetryPoetry- found by many but all so different. This is how I find it, through a camera lens of soft foggy green, a rhyming stanza of all I've seen. I am going to die by my own terms, facing whatever being shaped my soul, weapons out and teeth bared, o...
