My muse has fled the paper,
abandoning my head;
made me a breathing canvas,
for a painting done in red.
My muse has taken over
when for ages she was lost;
destructive are her habits,
so scarlet lines are crossed.
My muse has taken up a brush
and drawn upon my arm;
sadistic in her nature,
she takes pleasure in my harm.
My muse has gone a bit too far
in painting on my skin;
as scarlet flows from out my veins
she's killing from within.
My muse has found a last escape
through art and agony;
she took a razor paintbrush
and in death gave me release.

~October 29, 2011~
~ShatteredScribe~