Blooming

She painted herself as empty
as a blank canvas,

shallow with no depth .

But if you got beneath the surface ,

you’d find she’s a garden of wildflowers

trying very hard to not feel like weeds.

Blanked

I don’t feel like art.
I feel blurry,
as if the paint was smudged when transported in a hurry.
You can’t make out my edges ,my shapes,
I’m boundless and flowing,
No form. No structure.

I no longer know my soul,
It is as if the colours are starting to run,
I have been left out in my own rain to long.

I’m abstract yet potentially devoid of meaning
I’ve become something in need of interpretation