She was like
An old, dusty book,
Always closed. Never seen.
Always neglected. Never touched.
She felt as useless
As an empty pen,
Thrown away
Once she was used up.
She walked like
Someone who hadn’t slept
In a week,
Not dead but also not living.
She smelled of roses,
The kind of roses
That sat by an old gravestone.
She wore sweaters
That covered her wrists,
Because she was an artist.
The kind of artist
That carries a silver brush,
And only paints
In red.
Poem by me (via pczerw)