Her startling eyes bore a brown, deep into the canvas,
Her fingertips singed the paper a burnished black,
Her crazy laugh etched a warm maroon,
Her tears painted streams and rivers of blue,
Her lips stained the palette a violent red,
Her boisterous voice sprayed across a vibrant indigo,
Her kindness splattered throughout, a golden hue.
The picture she portrayed wasn't a beautiful scenery, nor a serene landscape, still it touched a stranger's heart,
In truth it was a harsh, tantalizing self-potrait that she liked to call Modern Art.
- Aastha Mehta
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Song on side: Colors - Halsey
YOU ARE READING
Slowly Drowning
PoetryFrom 2am thoughts, to 2pm reality, From being bullied by your own, to society's brutality. From the darkest corners of my mind, To the abused, unloved, brave and always kind. From the ones who have no home, To the ones who love being alone. From the...
