//A Painter’s Life//

I was born in a box of paints
That’s how I became a painter

I plan to perish on a paper of blank space
And get buried in my own crummy craze

I do not plan to learn to speak
Would rather choke on sucking the worst politician’s filthy feet

I wish to conquer the most spectacular beetle
And crush it hard along with my favourite burrito

I recognise every single colour
And find it ridiculous how the obnoxious tint of black fill up my feather

I am not sophisticated
I merely have the habit of getting living humans refrigerated

I don’t have a father
Sometimes I craft infants out of my mother’s leather

No I do not smoke or drink
Nor do I think

I sleep in the daylight
My imaginary doctor says it’d heal my acute sight and my abhorrent fright

Oh I once fell in love
Then my pencils learnt to stab throats tough

I still live in the same box of paints
I stopped painting
They say I never began either

18/01/2017 05:46am


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