roses

i am an artist, and i lack the paint

at night i compose, i create, but in vain

i need to find words to let go of your pain, i only need ink, my writings are faint, but i am an artist and i lack the paint.

my feet are naked, my soul is free

my fingers on stone, my soles on weed, my hands in the air and my hair in the wind, the warmth is my comfort, and yet i feel skinned

i am an artist but something is missing, as i let in my thoughts i hear angry hissing

of the wolves of the night in the depths of the shadows of trust and dependance so i fall back into repose that gives its warm comfort to numb the old lies,

but as i look up, in the darkest of skies, the moon's hollow eyes reflect your soul's cries and

as i look down to my feet on the ground in the puddles of ink, i find the paint i've been looking for

but as i put my hands in the water it fades

and on your skin are red blossoms and they're sculpted by blades

i am the artist and you are my art

and there goes my mind. and i write

because my lies might leave you scared but my truths would leave you scarred,

i hoped you wouldn't let me in but you let down your guard

and i saw your defenselessness and when you fell apart i was already paralysed by the abstract heart inside you

and so i started writing

this narrative of nothingness

an acoustic anaesthetic to assassinate your fears, dreadful dreams and dirty daggers but enough to dry your tears, but you got addicted quickly, and when your conscience sickly flickered that's when i should have had enough -

and when you asked me not to lie

i seriously tried

but trust me it gets harder

everytime i say goodbye

i was the one to break this down, and yes, i set the fire

i played my game, i'll take the blame, and yes, i am a liar

but

i am an artist, and i am addicted

i am comforted, safe and conflicted,

i am an artist and i am dependent.

i wish i could breathe but my lungs have been broken. i wish i could leave but what has been spoken

can not be erased

i hope you're happy when you go. i hope you believe, and i hope you know that all of my lives were composed just for you, and all of my lies have been chosen for you.

hope you never forgive me. because after all

i won my game and you were the doll and not once, i saw you for what you might have been.

so when you fade out, i will paint a grin on my skull and i'll smile when you die and you'll see when you're gone it was right that i lied

when you died the first time

and though you believed it, i was never a saint

i was an artist, and i lacked the paint.