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Poetry

A bloody Canvas

Tanisha

A pencil was drawing steady lines visioning something beautiful.

But beside a pencil lay a knife on a low edge, forgotten or perhaps waiting-

As the lines grew , knife stirred.
One line blurred , another broke..

Another second , the pencil was discarded and the gentle hand reached for cold blade.

Without a thought , it sliced through the paper.
what once were lines turned into jagged scars.

Blood appeared from the drawing itself
as if the paper itself has veins and as if art could bleed.

The final stroke came and amidst blood and torn pages , a face emerged
of his own self staring back at him,
unchanged.

And in that moment , he realized that the canvas of art was a mirror of his own self bleeding ,
lifeless and gone.
~Tanisha

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