i am a canvas,
i was born so pure,
my skin untouched by
society.
but the point of a canvas
is to not remain blank,
so as i grew up,
the people in my life
lifted
a paint brush
and
stroked it
against my pale,
smooth,
porcelain skin.
the first color
i can remember
being covered in is
red,
my cousin,
covered my
young,
five-year old skin
in red.
he painted me,
aggressively,
in places that
you shouldn’t touch on
a five-year old girl.
and that was the first time,
i wasn’t the pure,
pearly white canvas
anymore,
but i was red with
anger,
i was red with
evil.
and as i grew up some more,
colors of all sorts colored
my skin
to tell the story of my life.
yellow;
happiness,
blue;
sadness,
green;
envy.
but all of those colors,
could never cover the
old,
eleven-year old
red paint,
he left.
-
Author:
b.j. zeiger (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 9th, 2018 07:49
- Category: Sad
- Views: 25
Offline)
Comments2
Very powerful poem which I hope never happened to you.............
i wish it didn’t. but thank you so much for the feedback!
You're the real painter, Brii. A great painting with words.
thank you so much!
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