The ArtistA Poem by Chandler SevenPain in the most ironic sense...
She painted smiles and sunlight in a world that loathes joy. She dabbled gouache in summery hues when everyone strikes sharp, raw, rough, ragged lines of wint'ry existence in charcoal black.
She'd squint her eyes, mould her eraser-clay and blur dark splotches of ink or lead on the canvas. Still spirits are soiled and sodden. Try as she might she fail. Try as she might she ache.
She captured the pigment of his green-gray eyes where she sees beauty, but him, only lies. Banished, bereaved of beauty... And the shades of gray in her surrounds drew crimson blood: stabbed, slithered, suffocating.
She'd ask herself wher'ave all our colors gone? But life would meet her with blank, deathly stares. The pallor of the chipping paint on the easel, the brittleness of the aged paintbrush, the bleakness of o'er- existence, the painful, unyielding, merciless Fate have taken it all away and left her seeing the tints alone.
She was alone with the rainbow canvas and they all preferred the sepia and black'n white. She was alone.
© 2008 Chandler SevenAuthor's Note
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Added on October 20, 2008AuthorChandler SevenThe city of Evil, IDAboutI'll be androgynous... then I'll tell you soon... My pic... it's not me. Just ask me personally how i look like... stay away from me if you hate/are prejudiced towards: >>punk music (for my friend .. more..Writing
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