The Canvas

Her body is a canvas , and they are the artists.

They paint her greedily with their brush of lust.

They leave her there to dry ,their artwork hanging like an old discarded object, slowly collecting dust.

Her white frame becomes tainted with the colors of desire, ignorance , and lies.

Nothing left to do but accept the diamonds as they fall down her face as a piece of her shrivels and dies.

Wait , what's this ? What's that noise coming from the door?

Could it be them? What do they want? Do they wish to paint some more?

This poem is about: 
Our world


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741