Art
Words are like art.
Reading the text on a page
and wishing I could write like that,
like words that spill from my pen
come so naturally and
evoke so much emotion easily.
I wish I knew all the words
to perfectly express
how I feel at every waking moment.
I wish to write tragedies,
gothic horror that sends
a grim quiver down your spine.
I wish to write love stories
that perfectly excapsulate the terror
when everything turns sour.
Your words are like art.
And they cut into my skin,
one by one,
until I am scared and battered
with your speech.
Each torturous sentence you utter
snakes its way around my neck,
and gently squeezes
until my breath is at your mercy.
But you have no mercy,
you’ll bleed me out until I am dry.
Cure me of all my hopefullness,
like it’s a sickness that will drive me to death.
But see,
you’ll drive me to death
with those pretty little lips of yours,
and the harsh breath
that escapes your scowled mouth
with each insult you mutter.
