Everything I wrote was an art piece.
The paint spilled out of my heart
and the inspiration came from my soul.
I formed images through color.
I molded mountains with my hands
and I sculpted statues of gold.
But then I looked down.
And the paper was smeared with lead.
My words did not fill the page.
It was ugly
and it sounded ugly too.
I pictured my art as something it was not
and I reaped the consequences
of my folly.
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Author:
Christina K (
Offline) - Published: November 18th, 2016 18:59
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 45
- User favorite of this poem: Elegant_Style.
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Comments1
This is an absolutely beautiful poem! Well this is an art piece so thanks for sharing!
Thank you!
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