Lost Inspiration

The inscriptions scrawled across my arms
Are nothing but lies
Nothing compared to the truth
You’ve seen composed all over
My face, in my eyes.
The red ink, this time
A crimson butterfly through
The sketchpad.
Stain me forever,
Don’t leave this, another canvas
Spill your poetry across it
Draw me across
With your skilled hand
These sketchy lines run
Over the page onto Me.
I am only for the eyes of the artist
For the swift brush stroke
As the nib carves into flesh.
Your ink wells up inside.
You drag the emotions across my face
Force attention
Provoke debate
The flowing forms bound together
Chained in lyrical movement
Moulded through sweet imperfection.
We link in wonder if I’ll be the one
The first and only masterpiece,
Uniting creator and creation.
You coerce and constrain me to
Make me fit the page.
It isn’t working.
Before I can,
The pen submits
Bends, breaks,
Admits defeat.
I feel the emotion tear at you
Resentment and anger
Against me, not for me.
The hurtful emotions pain us both
Tear us apart.
Hurled against the wall
With a satisfying crack,
I am no longer needed.
The emotion, too strong,
Is broken.
Without the resisting connection
Of the pen to shape us both,
I will always remain lost to you.

The End

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