Cold Nights ||Poems||

Poem #48

The artist's brush strokes are heavy and slow
His eyes filled with sorrow, his heart full of woe
Each stroke reveals a story, a tale of his pain
But on the canvas, it's beauty that remains

He pours his emotions onto the canvas
With every stroke, his heart feels weightless
The colors he uses, so vibrant and bold
But inside, his heart feels empty and cold

His paintings tell a story of a broken soul
Of a heart that's shattered, never to be whole
Each masterpiece, a reflection of his tears
A glimpse into his world, full of fears

He longs to find solace in his art
To mend the pieces of his broken heart
But the more he paints, the more he bleeds
For his sadness is the fuel for his creativity

The world admires his work, they see the beauty
But only he knows the pain and the cruelty
Of a heart that's burdened, of a soul that's torn
Of a sad artist, who's left to mourn

Yet he continues to paint, day after day
Hoping that his sadness will someday fade away
But until then, he'll keep pouring his heart
Into his paintings, his only form of art

So when you see a sad artist, don't just admire
But look deeper, and you'll see the fire
That burns within, the pain that drives
For his art is a reflection of his very life.