Untitled poem idea (draft #1)
Crimson blood drips onto a white canvas
Art is born
For art is the blood we bleed
Bit by bit, drip by drip
Until the well has run dry
Until we have given all that we have
Until we are begging for a breath of air, suffocating slowly at the hands of a society forged by hatred and prejudice and loathing until we have been well and truly been crucified, brandished as a warning for those who dare to dream
Is this what it means to leave our mark on the world?
















