the artist

her wrists were her canvases
and her fists, her sculptures.
her body was her gallery,
on which she painted rust and crimson.
and every night she set out to work,
with her reflection as her only colleague
as she saluted to her chief, mr. vicodin.

together they'd work until daybreak.

when she caught herself
sleeping on the job,
she would punish ( Read more... )

crimson

there's something soothing
about that color
and its tantalizing smell
that puts the mind at ease.
it runs smooth, but deep
as the familiar pain takes over,
returning to bring you back to
when brown met silver,
the smooth that roughened your skin
and introduced the scarlet color
as it trickled down the sink.
you thought you saw words
( Read more... )

i'll be your quasimodo in disguise. & you'll be my imperfect perfection.
& when the dark clouds shadow your skies, i'll shield you behind these walls of protection.
it's where we'll be invisible to the oblivious, when it's us against the world.
& with these calloused fingers i'll lift the world off of your shoulders.

...cuz you're my imperfect ( Read more... )