My blade is my paintbrush.
My skin is the canvas.
My blood is the paint.
I am an artist.
The razor is my pen.
My skin is the paper.
My blood is the ink.
I am a writer.
My heart is destroyed, broken.
My skin is my life that I'd wish I could leave.
My blood is my emotions, bleeding out.
I am dead.
YOU ARE READING
What Lurks Within Us (A collection of poems)
RandomI got this idea from my dear friend Aimee. Many of these poem come from my emotions or it's the feelings of others.
