The stereotypical artist has hands made out of leathered skin and hints of dull razors on his face. There's an intellectual craving for a piece of god but not from heaven's gates, and crimson paint dried unto dirtied minds is what we're painting today. The starving artist lives full on content though prickled of pride that embezelled his ecstasy. The scream that he painted was yelled into ears thousands of miles away, though none of us possessed the wisdom to listen.
Reason for writing:
people dismiss what they do not understand. you can be starving but incredibly full. it's all about inner satisfaction.
Birth sign: Not entered
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by krYstene **Cancer**.