(no subject)
the artist
her wrists were her canvases
and her fists, her sculptures.
her body was her gallery,
on which she painted rust and crimson.
and every night she set out to work,
with her reflection as her only colleague
as she saluted to her chief, mr. vicodin.
together they'd work until daybreak.
when she caught herself
sleeping on the job,
she would punish herself
and take up double the workload
the next night,
during her graveyard shift.
people inquired of her occupation
and she calmly replied with
a knowing smile that has crept upon her face
as she exhibited a composition of her masterpieces.
"why, i'm an artist."
her wrists were her canvases
and her fists, her sculptures.
her body was her gallery,
on which she painted rust and crimson.
and every night she set out to work,
with her reflection as her only colleague
as she saluted to her chief, mr. vicodin.
together they'd work until daybreak.
when she caught herself
sleeping on the job,
she would punish herself
and take up double the workload
the next night,
during her graveyard shift.
people inquired of her occupation
and she calmly replied with
a knowing smile that has crept upon her face
as she exhibited a composition of her masterpieces.
"why, i'm an artist."