I put a frame over the hole in the wall.
I didn't cover it up,
Or try to fix it with tape.
Because baby you're art.
And art isn't always pleasant.
Or warm
Or kind.
Or even understandable.
You are raw.
And full of feelings.
And your colors,
Stroke after stroke,
Layers of you.
Thrown over a canvas,
Escaping...
Because nothing can hold you down,
Not even a frame.
And you are maddening.
Because you fill me up,
And stretch me out,
Pulling me in ways my body shouldn't be able to go.
And you show me things,
While you're tearing me apart from the insides,
You show me things.
Beautiful dark things,
And secrets,
Lodged between the truth and the lies.
And when I rip apart.
When I explode,
All over the fresh canvas,
I see you,
The uncontrolled madness,
The beauty,
I see you.
Among the layers of everything,
And the sweet lies,
And bitter truths,
And dirty secrets,
I see you,
When I step away from the canvas,
And call it a day,
After I wash my brushes
And leave the art out,
So the paint dries.
When I wash my hands...
And glance up at the mirror,
I see you, faintly
A glimpse before you go away again,
The parts of me I only show,
When it gets too much to hold in.
YOU ARE READING
EPIPHANY
Poetry"I'm desperately trying to heal myself." •. •. •. •. •. I strongly believe art isn't supposed to be pretty, or liked and understood by the masses. Art is supposed to make you unco...
