She was Art

She was Art

that needed to imitate life

Only a love tap it was

that caused that bruise

or spurt of blood

the feelings of coldness made her

and all she carried inside her

Making pitstops and giving in

hopes of deliverance

No one would claim the creation

save one who knew the real

meaning of love

Though it was not her idea of love

Unable to feel

Unable to feel what kicked

But able to feel the kicks on the outside

Painting her own picture

erasing the final product as she went

 along

Reviews

[em]

- ah she was, wasn't she!! - how very sad, indeed! - you write with such a biting sensitivity - and such a sense of a fragile reality - it moves me to a raw and aching place inside - thank you - for gracing our worlds with your absolutely divine and profound presence - it means so much - to have a friend in you!! - :) -

[.]

. makes me really, really sad that such women exist ...