The Art In Me
by MyHalozChokinMe Oct 7, 2012
|
This becomes the manifestation of remembered anguish suffered for so many years. Blackened ink spread upon the surface of myself. The memories have become nothing more than pain tattooed into skin. What remains is a shell breathing, writing, painting, reflections of the death inside. |
Did You Like This Poem?
Latest Comments
-
11 years ago
I don't know exeactly why, but this reminded me of finger painting. In the sense that the reaction from your touch would replace the paint. Therefore with every touch, we paint upon the world who we are. Since we tend to mold ourselves from past happenings.
My apologies if this sounds rather encrypted, made perfect sense in my head :) But always a thought provoking read. -
11 years ago
by Baby Rainbow
:O
Firstly I was so surprised to see this from you because of the layout, it is not like your normal layout at all. I had to double check the author!
The wording again is just so powerful and deep. Nice little write.
