The Painter

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic


A short poem about my secret addiction

Submitted: September 11, 2018

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Submitted: September 11, 2018

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My heart pounds with every stroke,

An euphoric bliss accompanies the pain.

Like every painting,

The first stroke is always the hardest.

Full of nervousness and uncertainty,

But as you keep on going,

It is replaced with excitement, comfort and a cocktail of emotions.

The blade,

My paintbrush.

My skin,

The canvas.

In the end,

My painting is filled with wet red streaks,

DRIPPING,

Filled with redness that are dried.

Finding comfort in my painting,

I felt satisfied.

Yet why do I have to hide it?


© Copyright 2018 sennah. All rights reserved.

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