February 24, 2009
His skin is hidden by blue tourniquets from wrists to elbows. His forearms are shamed by crimson scabbing and wired stitch. His mouth is hallowed black. He gave his voice away from himself with fear and apathy. His eyes, pale wolf's night blue, from pain and nightmares. His smile is transparent, happiness gone. His heart, hopeless romantic and cold, frozen purple from giving out trust, and yet,
His writing, so melodic and pure.
His art, perfect, stunning.
He is not an equation to be solved nor tampered with.
He is but himself.

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Annabelle L. said...
Feb. 20, 2010 at 3:01 pm
oh my god. this is such a freaky poem.(In a good way! :))
I really loved it. you can describe feelings and heartbreak and go on and on and on, but present a picture of someone, and you say it all with a kind of skill that is very rare. Absolutely beautiful.
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