The Dead Painter

The wood splinters as his fist flails past the surface. He screams as the pain rushes his brain. He writes poetry on the cement walls. Poetry in blood...drying quickly but seemingly slow. Words of hate and anger. This madman writes feelings in blood and tears. Is this madness...or reality? He opens the door in order to let the demons escape. His inner-beast growls with corruption and conceit. He runs up and down the stairwell painting the walls red with insanity and pain. The moon crashes down to his backyard and he paints it as a blind man would draw. He paves the streets with his flowing liquids and topples down on top of a pick-up truck. From his frame of mind the world is now pure, from the worlds point of view, the man is dead.