wordsmith

the artist who drinks thier own blood,

is the first to taste the salt,

flavor to enhance the taste,

seasoning to please the guests,

our blackest paints add the deepests contast,

drowning gives the best view of the waves,

the blackest nights make the best of stories,

the coldest mornings we are most warm,

it is only in the process of destroying we are able to build,

artistians are not strangers to their own wounds,

cuts heal once the wounds have bled dry,

in many that blood is paint to the art,

they say not to pull the venom out of a snake bite,

wait for the antivenom instead,

monsters only chase what we hold on to,

claws can still cut their owner's hands,

creating is a relief and a cage,

we are hosts to a party of mental dispair,

where the guests do not leave until the reserves have run dry,

leaving just enough of you to push by,

we tell the best stories when the street lights have gone out,

the future clouded by slashes of black,

yellow drops feel better when they are malleable,

the public doesn't pay for pretty pictures