I Write
It’s not art. It’s not poetry. It’s not worthy of prose. It’s not the inspiration behind a painting that can be hung on the wall. There’s nothing beautiful about it. No sonnets or songs can capture it or do it justice.
It’s brutal and it’s harsh. It’s a firm stab to the heart, an infected graze on the knee, the searing of skin as a palm is placed on the burner, a deep gash to the thigh, an ageing blue green bruise to the shin, a welt to the tricep, a slit to the wrist, a bullet to the brain... or something more quiet...
The rush of the breeze as it blows past the lifeless body falling helplessly to the cool earth below. The empty stare in the eyes of the soul as the cloud passes over and they offer their last breath...
It’s not art... It’s masochistic... It’s not art... It’s masochistic...
It’s brutal and it’s harsh. It’s a firm stab to the heart, an infected graze on the knee, the searing of skin as a palm is placed on the burner, a deep gash to the thigh, an ageing blue green bruise to the shin, a welt to the tricep, a slit to the wrist, a bullet to the brain... or something more quiet...
The rush of the breeze as it blows past the lifeless body falling helplessly to the cool earth below. The empty stare in the eyes of the soul as the cloud passes over and they offer their last breath...
It’s not art... It’s masochistic... It’s not art... It’s masochistic...
