And when I bleed,
I wish I could bleed into art.
But I don’t know how, or where to start.
I can’t simply regurgitate my pain on a piece of paper.
It has to be seen as poetic,
To be felt as romantic.
But I don’t know how
To write something so fantastic.
If only I could play with the words…
It has to be interpreted as dramatic
And to be felt as frightening.
But I don’t know how
To paint something so ecstatic.
If only I could play with the colours…
It has to be heard as stunning,
To make you feel like dying.
But I don’t know how
To sing something so exciting.
If only I could play with the notes…
It has to be known that it’s my pencil’s blood,
The tool with which I design my art.
But when I bleed,
I’ll never truly know how to bleed into art.
Patry's Writings 