Fingerpaint
Your canvas sits in the corner of the room
Ripped fabric hangs from the borders
Winter elicits a cold shoulder
Paint strung across the wall-remember when you stalled
Head hung low, I know what it means to be called
Nothing leaves the heart stained like the image of your fingerpaint
The room echoes your words
I know you wished for sensible worth
Begging for someone to trace your sighs
Begging for someone to trace your thighs
Brush against the paper-brush against the asked favor
Rusted razor, Rusted flavor, blood-orange moon
Soon again, soon we pretend, soon is a better ending
Erase for a picture-perfect world
Your canvas hangs in the living room
They call it a muse-all of sudden you are deemed a ruse
Point a finger at the mistakes of the past
I'll continue to paint
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