19 & Miserable: Broken Brushes

Life for me was miserable, I mean I was 19.

You'd be miserable too if you read poems made by me.

But that's how the life of a broken hearted artist worked.

Life handed me rotten lemons,

And all I had to do was figure out how to get the money to buy new ones.

You see, my artful hands never made trash.

Every scissor scrap was a new piece to adapt.

For echo scratched holes haven’t lost their sound-

And blacked out rings will never make me sing!

I’ve been dying since the day I’ve been dragging my soul!

And you broke me till I was no longer whole!

My hair's a mess,

I barely get dressed-

My breath reeks of depression worse than 1929,

I keep saying that I'm fine but they're fabricated lies I've grown to accept over time.

As I watch you sit there admiring his “art,”

And you sit and take a peek at the polarized photos that he took from this morning.

We were never this pitiful but our love became flammable.

Paint brush,

Pain struck-

Charcoaled art has never been seen this dark.

Galaxies you were,

Now a never ending blur.

3 A.M no dreams again,

Every breath is a gasp in shock of ruined canvases.

As broken hearts never break even because you've said you're never leaving.

As uneasy heart will always weigh the most-

But broken brushes just can't be held.