Shaws poems
[TW, mild romanticism/metaphor/symbolism (not promoting)]
The artist wonders how long
Till the lines grow deeper
And their brush more aggressive
How slippery is the slope?
they ponder
As the farther up lines crawl
Their brush imatates a kitten claws
Drawing paint from the can
Ever so slightly
Eventually their brush will grow rusty
What then?
Will it knock some sense into the artist?
Only time will tell
But how much will Time tell?
Will it tell the artist anything?
Or are Time’s words falling on deaf ears
The lines are pleasing to touch
Their rough texture a craved stimuli
So the artist relishes in the fruit of their labor
As their fingers trail up and down the canvas
Full of fading red lines
Both new and old
@Shawdios
Using the brush as a metaphor is really powerful. The suggestion of the artist creating something both destructive but with addition of the addictive nature is very strong. This is a very powerful poem. 💜
What a morbid art
Those red lines
Now drawn with a thinner brush
The previous is discarded
Not even rusted
No more kittens claws
For this healing and wounded canvas
The artist has grown more serious
“But what of tattoos?”
Well it's a similar art
And while lesser taboo
Age is for now what blocks them
The artist adores the paint
Yet always fears when it takes on a darker color
Especially now that the bucket is more easily opened
Or accidentally knocked over
The bucket staining the canvas
And its critical contents spilling uncontrollably
With no way to stop it from emptying
You cant save everyone.
What a curious line
For the people pleaser to hear
Do they deny it?
And cling harder to the toxic ones they hold dear?
Or does it resonate
And spur the moment to break
Away from the leeches
Who would forever take and take
The same leeches
With no care for the pleaser
Who’s always dragged down
By the manipulative teaser
Exploiting their kindness
For just a taste of power
They cling and demand
The pleaser’s lost another flower
But what is the cost
Of their deserved freedom?
Well, its urges for harm
And a desire for lines others cannot fathom