Of course, I was miserable, I was 19.
You'd be miserable too if you read poems made by me.
But that's how the life of a broken-hearted artist worked.
Life handed me rotten lemons,
And all I had to do was figure out how to get the money to buy new ones.
My artful hands never made trash.
Every scissor scrap was a new piece to adapt.
Echo scratched holes haven't lost their sound-
And blacked out rings will never make me sing!
I've been dying since the day I've been dragging my soul!And you broke me till I was no longer whole!
My hair's a mess,
I barely get dressed-
My breath reeks of depression worst than 1929,
I keep saying that I'm fine but they're fabricated lies I've grown to accept over time.
As I watch you sit there reading his texts,
And you sit and take a peek the polarized photos that he took from this morning.
We were never was this pitiful but our love became flammable.
Paintbrush,
Pain struck-
Charcoaled art never seen it's dark.
Galaxies you were,
Now a never-ending blur.
3 a.m. no dreams again,
Every breath is a gasp in shock of ruined canvases.
As broken hearts never break even because you've said you're never leaving.
But broken brushes can't be held.