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I Am No Artist
I know not how to pen proses of jubilation
For gaiety has perished among shards of this jagged broken soul,
Leaving me stained of cardinal undoing,
Blinding me of the verity that once colored these bones
So I smear the remnants of demise across my liquored lips,
Painting a smile for inspiration
After all, the wind has no shame to sing among the shattered buildings,
It's simply a song of obligatory survival,
Though I have never been the same since the light went out
This body, this vessel, this mural of painful muses,
Used and abused by my own heavy heart and hand, tightly grasping sand
A personal warfare between mind and body, spirit and soul
I am no artist
I am merely someone who suffers for her art,
Though perhaps this is what artistry truly is,
And one day the wails that have gone unheard for so long, will be heard hailing the winds of time,
Sauntering a fated path of feigned formalities and futile pursuit, seeking immortality
For we are forgotten in life, but
Remembered in death


© cracksfilledwithgold



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