An artist of perfection,
Paints a story of her past,
Every stroke a shade of red,
Each one made to last,
Her tool a shiny razor blade,
A canvas made of skin,
Each line and cross a memory,
Of a pain found deep within,
Slowly her body reveals a map,
Of where love once used to be,
She slashed and sliced just to feel,
A pain that she could see,
The ink would run, The pain would sting,
She'd smile a job well done,
Then she'd hide herself amongst the stars
And admit that fear had won!
WOW! maybe in 2 year (i'm 13) i'll be able to write like that, luv it. Keep it up.
hey i think you're a really good writer! you're not much younger than me but I'd be happy if i was half as good as you! ! keep writing, it wud be a shame if you stopped, Amy.-x-
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is great, Becky :) Artistic perfection indeed...wonderful metaphors...I just hope that the 'paint' being used is strictly your muse at work... Best wishes. jack :)