My darling you are art.
And art was never meant to be pretty
It was never meant to be easy on the eyes
If anything , art was supposed to burn
burn a hole deep enough into your skin that you’d be forced to notice it,
listen to it ,
understand it
Art is the manifestation of humanity’s disasters.
It is chaos ,
it is trouble ,
it is insanity ,
it is pain
Art is what a mind would cower to utter and a heart would race to scream.
Art is blood
and it is sweat
and it is tears.
It warms the cold and disturbs the content.
How terrifying it must be, to grow acres of trees on dead soil.
How horrifying, to find beauty in the distraught.
And yet here I am, picturing Lillies in your hair as I caress your gentle skin
If this is what it meant to be burned,
then I will claw at a life of soot and ash
for a promise of a tomorrow
where your shadows intertwine with mine
-𝘢𝘺𝘢 // 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘱𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴
