i am a beautiful tragedy
i am a canvas of a million colors painted by an artist with no sense of "what's next" or even now. insecurities have cuffed the artist's limbs, abandonment has tricked her happiness for anxiety, and death has pricked her naked blue eyes at such a young age.
she often asks herself as she brushes paint along me, artwork that mirrors her own self, "what did i do so wrongly? why was i never good enough?" fast movement. bleeding lip. a billion insecurities finally released onto nothingness creating something, creating emotion that finally makes sense. emotion that is interpreted in her mind as not good enough for a boy she failed to understand, a boy who has bruised her heart from deranged actions he chose to take, and then caused her to jump into a mindset of falling dominoes, hoping next time she falls it'll be in to a new life, of new meaning, and finally believing she is good enough. hoping he will be a simple ash left over from the fire that torched her mind.
when questioning doesn't help, yelling does. screaming: you fucking left me! all of you! everyone fucking leaves, everyone! why! why! ferociously beating the colorful landscape with the tip of her brush with black, she digs her nails into her palm. so harshly it draws blood. blood vividly known as pain, but pain is not a virtue to her any longer for numbness overtakes her after a wave of anger.
and them came the tears that finalized me, a work of emotion. tears that meant everything. misfortune. self-hatred. friends leaving. dead grandparents. dead dad. memory after memory.
i can tell you that i am a visual tragedy but i am also a beautiful one. that i cannot apologize for.
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lost souls: rain, stars, and iced coffee
PoetryDoes anyone remember how anything begins? Or how anything ends? For every story, every song, every movie has a beginning to an end and an end to a beginning, but what about the rest? What about prior to the beginning or after the end, and everything...
