My Art Poem by Thomas Ware

Dark,
Red,
Maroon,
Violent violet aura,
Coursing through the mind,
Seeking to justify,
The torture,
But to force you,
Sitting at the desk tip-tapping away,
Keyboard on fire, slowly typing away pain,
Use it as a channel to flow,
But with every word the perversion does grow,
Worse and worse every second,
Brain sifting through the wreckage,
It's a beautiful kind of pain,
Understanding the message,
Thinking through the flames,
Coming closer to divining the true essence,
The dark red maroon violent violent glare,
Rusty, shimmering bloody, shining through the air,
It's all in your mind,
Metastasizing,
Blowing up, riling,
Looks like the mist after no surviving,
Bombs went off, surrounding the living,
Turning life into death, turning death into written,
Words, tried vainly to describe,
The evil inside,
Even now with this poem I fail to align,
Syllables and rhymes,
To express what I feel when I cry,
When I snap bones,
When I feel as if my house isn't my home,
Every time I write these verses,
You can see the haze surrounding a plethora of hearses,
A blood-soaked gurney,
The blood-red dark circling the circus,
Where Grayson's parents died,
Setting into motion lies,
Fantastic series of almost murder, Joker, just die!

It's a beautiful kind of pain and sadness,
Anathema yet parallel to the gladness,
Surging all throughout within the body of madness,
Badness,
Katniss, her fiery rage,
Similar to this we are on a hellbound train,
Creativity, art,
It is the truest in dark,
Refined in the teeth of sharks,
Hark, make your mark,
There's never enough time,
Before I finally die,
To these emotions transcribe,
Fine.

We find that art is that most harsh of lords,
Only blood and gore,
Lies in wait, in store,
Chaos creeps through this open door.
Marking the paper with the horizon,
The art is flying,
But opens up the lightning,
The art is very frightening,
And horizons let loose the nightlings.
Fill in that alabaster space,
With oil, pastel paste,
You color it in haste,
For what could take its place?
Artists are like a channel,
For that dark red maroon violent violet haze,
You cannot draw or write with grace,
True art pours out wildly,
Like a monstrous reviled thing,
There is no art made mildly.
Art is full of rage and passion,
From the soul an extraction,
Of all your darkest deepest thoughts,
These ideas with peril are fraught,
Life without it is naught,
Void of meaning, full of rot.