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Again, another poem from the psychological paradox that is my mind...
Art
She is an artist
Thats what they've always said
And all the art she has ever done
HAs always been in red
She only has one utensil
Only one that she prefers
Any other screws her up
But htis one, it is hers
Some say her art is beautiful
Some say it is really bad
She knows exactly what it is
Cause its done when she is mad
She made a promise to her love
To leave her arms alone
But her love was not there
The night she ran from home.
Her mom was being a jerk
Her daddy being an a**
Her mama slapped her hard in the face
And she was outta there fast
She only went 4 houses down
Cause her daddy was sure to follow
She snuck inside nd talked it over
But after she still felt hollow
She got a ride home that night
Her friend whispered "good luck"
She opened the door and saw her dad
And first thought "oh ********"
The fight carried on all night
Her parents didn't care
They didn't see themselves killing her
Because all she did was glare
Finally her mom had enough
Boarding school she said
"******** no" she thought
And then ran to bed
She grabbed her scissors along the way
And pulled up sleeves
She dug them in real hard
And watched the blood begin to leave
She made a heart, a star, a bow
She even made cat
She finished all her pictures
The last one was a hat.
Now she had new art to show
To all her artsy friends
Most of them will like it,
But some know soon
She'll end.
 xdemonicallyxyours13x · Fri Mar 16, 2007 @ 09:19pm · 0 Comments |
