Breathing is an art, that tastes like drifting sand. The tighter your grip, the painful it gets. Too loose, and it fades. Too tight, and it breaks.
Life is an art, in shades of colors. A black and white, bland like water. You thirst, you yearn. In every hope you hold, the stronger the storm. In every ruins, you transcend.
Left are the bits of past, fragments of yesterday’s wrath. The longing is deep, it remains. It does not worn out, it never drowns. While sorrow does, while you grieve your last. Pain fleets goodbye, scars engraved and carved.
It takes courage to breathe in, it takes soul to exhale. The sound of rhyming thuds, that cracks of your beating heart. The art of life, the art and the artist’s touch. Maybe warm, might be cold. For what story shall be told, life is an art. It’s always, depends, on the artist’s brush.
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