Painter.

Why paint so gentle? As if each canvas is a rose 

Ready for blood to coat it's petals.  

It ought to burn; just like the hearts of beaus.  

Don't worry, my brushstrokes are nettles.  

Trepidation runs through my veins. As if  

I am ready  for blood to coat my petals. 

And it will burn; just like the hearts of beaus.  

Don't worry.  

Petrified I am. As- I know- Possibly-Maybe-Definitely... 

Death stands with a me in his hands.  

Death burns  my skin, not my heart coated in celibacy.  

"Don't worry" Death says, "You'll paint vigorously"  

That's what I did.  

In this moment I live? Lived?  

Painting with colors, black, red and white.  

Painting with anger, sadness and fright.  

Why do you paint so gentle? As if you know the aspects of days.  

Why do you smile so quietly? As if you know you'll smile again.  

Why are you awfully quiet? Knowing someday they'll hear your noise? 

I know.  

You're staying unnoticed... by the death in boys.