An artists muse painted red.

Love is an illusion or myth,

all alone like it doesn’t exist,

though artist are alone to begin with.

Alone with a book and a pen,

a writers best friend.

Someone who is different,

and yet so distant.

Inspiration or rather a muse,

someone to never loose.

Something you can choose,

to use or abuse.

Painting with the blood, 

from the darkest part of your heart.

Something like your love,

to finish this piece I call art.