You’re so finely woven
a stretch of time upon
my eye and I dream of
colors to shoot across
your clean white face.
My painting!  My canvas!
My own heart chambers
so shy!  You have sat there
for three months and haven’t
had a period since then.
Upon my easel you wait,
hmm, wondering if you want it.
I forgave the paint-brush penis,
who penetrated your hymen.
You bled for days and I was left
with the mess of a baby
who still cries for the breast!
So the milk shall flow across
the gutters of a dirty street
and your artistry will refine
the masses of this garbage-
filled world of empty heads.

:: 04-06-2015 ::

About EPRobles

Writer, Artist. I like to paint abstract acrylic images onto canvas. I love to read everything, and I especially enjoy science, philosophy, and the arts. I'm new to the blog experience and I very much enjoy it! I hope to learn as much about all the features that WordPress offers and thank you -- my visitor -- for taking time to read my words. Peace and love... View all posts by EPRobles

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