i am bleeding from my soul and
they are calling it beautiful.
red splattered on linen.
it is only beautiful because it
is hung up and deemed art.
without the pedestal and
the people and
the purpose, it is just sadness,
and there is nothing
admirable about that.
my thoughts are
a gallery,
and sometimes,
i feel like that's the
only way i could ever
portray them without
being drowned in
fresh canvas white.
-V
