She was a walking museum,
made of all the heart break and all the pain,
all the happiness and all the love she had experienced,
her thoughts were beautiful paintings,
her mind was a chaos,
giving birth to the most abstract forms of art,
her words were as sharp as swords,
as melancholic as a summer romance,
as artistic as the blood flowing in her veins.
She offered him her all,
but he decided that art wasn't his thing.
YOU ARE READING
high on art
Poetrybecause every one of us is a beautiful piece of art and i believe that i, myself, am a rare masterpiece. This work is placed under copyright. Highest ranking until now #45 in Poetry
