Somewhere in my subconscious an artist is killing himself

 

he pulls the onion skin

off the mood hes in

hears it crackle as it

hits the floor

 

he breathes in again

feels the heat again

in this dream hes in

he wants more

 

puts a new coat on

takes his glasses off

rubs his temple where

the visions throb

 

folds into himself

all his visual wealth

rolls a cigarette

and drags it down

 

smokes another one

reaches for the gun

picks a canvas from

the littered ground

 

when the bullet flies

blood gets in his eyes

splatters on the quaint

acrylic town

 

Its raining red again

his eyes are opening

Its raining red again

his eyes are opening

Its raining red again

his eyes are opening

 

and he can finally see

past the imagery

 

he can finally see

plain white walls

 

With a tripled beat on a small drum in a subtle singing voice that may or may not be my own but came out nonetheless.

Reviews

[J. Hampton]

Very creatively said...

"puts a new coat on
takes his glasses off
rubs his temple where ( luv this )
the visions throb" . ( an this )

folds into himself
all his visual wealth '

the most striking statement is made in the way you contrasted these two thoughts

"picks a canvas from
the littered ground"

and ...
"he can finally see
plain white walls"

I believe the death a metaphor ?
and effective it is.....artists of all kinds are haunted by what they cannot convey through their art..
its almost as though an artist needs to be relased or delivered from his art

Kudos sis

Blessssssssss