I’m a freshly washed white table cloth
and that’s all they’re going to understand
now I’m the one who’ll paint on my canvas
I’m going to put all of my favourite colors on myself, on the places I want.
now you’ll have my past, my secrets, my fears, you’ll have my life on your hands, but you’ll have nothing better, you’ll have her.
but I have me, i’ll make new secrets, erase my fears, have my life in my heart, and i’ll have everything better, I have my future.
Clean
I don’t like calling my art poems though much might say so, I never think that my silly little writings are ever good enough to be called “art” I always thought that, that would make actual poets felt invalidated. But if art is whatever the artist thinks is, then I’d like to think that this is art.
nana's corner 