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The Artist
My bed of roses, underneath it hides an army of nails.
Crimson spills but remains unseen behind this tattered veil.
Mona Lisa smile, but my buds bloom only in the light of pain,
howling ghosts of the past still haunt me, I fear myself no longer sane.
Concrete exhaustion, it weighs me down and I'm barely able to move,
painting pictures of who I'm not, this mask I'm unable to remove.
I've torn open my ribcage and there's no heart, only purgatory to be seen,
I've sown myself shut, I'll never let you notice I'm anything but pristine.
Trapped in the deepest depths of this hell, I've burned my skin trying to escape,
there are no exit signs any more, only oceans of fire amidst this war-torn landscape.
I am embedded here now, forced to dance forever with only demons and sorrow,
and all I have left to do is paint yet another lie to deceive you tomorrow.
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