I'm an artist, though I've never showed anyone my art. I am ashamed of my past artwork, but I urge to pick up my silver pen and scratch more lines into my paper-thin skin. My gallery is on hiatus, but my fans inside my head are cheering for an encore.
There is another who draws. She paints in dark red lines and dripping tears down her arm. She covers her art with others masterpieces, and when her voice is silent but her skin is screaming with new additions to her pages,
she is beautiful. She is the most awe-inspiring, much like Van Gogh or Monet. She does not understand the others love.
I hope to be somebody's Van Gogh.
-k
YOU ARE READING
The World Keeps Turning
PoetryJust a collection of my poems. No big idea, just a book of my mind.
