Friday Poetry: "Canvas"

Hi everyone!

I woke up at 12:30 PM today and I do not think I have ever slept that long. Winter break is an incredible feeling, oh my goodness.

I'm going downtown to see Interstellar this weekend, which I'm very very excited about - I've read some lovely reviews and apparently it's great fun, so I can't wait! Also, in even more important news, the website-to-blog remodel is beginning as soon as I publish this post. Don't be alarmed if you can't access the blog this weekend - never fear, it's just me finalising the changes! And if you need to contact me, please feel free to do so through email or Twitter.

This week's Friday Poetry was written last week, except exams are annoying so unfortunately I didn't get a chance to post it. I'd had the third stanza in my notebook for quite some time, so I thought I might as well play around with it and see what direction I could take it in. I'm not entirely sure I love the end result - I've changed the last stanza so many times - but I would love to hear what you guys think! :D Feel free to leave your comments and interpretations below.

Have a lovely weekend, everyone!

love, Topaz


once upon a time, an artist loved you and he made birds grow in your eyes and flowers bloom from your chest.

he used your blood as ink and your bones as the finest pen. his hands silvery-soft like a river, like a star, and if you’d forgotten the way back home, he drew you a new path. the sound of sorrow filled your aching lungs, but he took the broken violins in your veins and turned them into a symphony.

once upon a time, an artist loved you and he pulled you apart for the inkwell between your ribs and the skipping record in your skull.

your song was out of tune, piano keys gathering dust, palette filled with blacks and greys, but he loved you fiercely enough that you promised yourself you could relearn how to speak in colour. this is how he loved you: with soft surrender, brushes painting out your sunset song. as he learned to worship you for the ragged canvas of your body, you slowly forgot what it meant to be your own muse.

once upon a time, an artist loved you so deeply that you were still trying to memorise the song in his head when his watercolours finally bled you dry.