The Artist

I knew a girl

who had a heavy heart

she’d pour into her poetry

Every lover who strayed

became a piece of poesy

for her to own forever

I begged her to let me

live evermore in her words

She shook her head

I felt a touch dismayed

when her hand

caressed my glassy cheek

and she said

She could only reminisce

those who broke her heart

I never made her cry—

I’d never be a poem

In that moment

I wished in a haze of red

that I could shatter her

into a million jagged pieces

Adorning the cold ground

round my feet

The cruel thought flitted away

quick as it came

But on the stillest nights

I’d dream

Of digging my fingers

into her weary heart

She’d bleed gold

My hands tainted

with the glitter of her soul

She’d write masterpieces

about the wicked man

who tore her being apart

But then I’d wake up

with my hands clean

her pages full of foreign names

and she’d still love me

I didn’t want it anymore

I wanted to swim deep

in the river of gold

that I let flow

Her devilishly red pen

sat on her lonely desk

Tempting me each night

to live out my morbid dreams

It was hardly a surprise

when I pierced her throat

with it as she slept soundly

My new ink is redder than her pen

I suppose I’m an artist now too