My Sweetheart Paints

My Sweetheart, the Artist

She's always been the violent type.
A painter of pain, she
constantly covers my kiss-prepped canvas,
expressing her love with vivid hues of blues and blacks,
the greens of intimacy, wrathful reds,
and purples left by lusty lips.

I nicknamed her my Monet of Misery,
the prodigy of pleasurable agony.
One must admire her creativeness:
the patterned claw marks down my back -
works of art which I inspired -
are masterpieces worn with pride,
the pink, six-stitch blemish hiding
snakelike within my right eyebrow,
brushed on with her crafty elbow
in a tickle war one night.
The heart-shaped, singed
spot of skin on my abdomen -
an artistic aftermath of candle wax sketches.

But just for once I wouldn't mind
her being a bit more Bob Ross:
gently stroking, dabbing the canvas,
creating "happy little clouds".

I hope this doesn't bother you, but-how completely adorable!

Thanks!
I'm glad you liked it.

Beautiful conceit. Now, of course, I will have to google Bob Ross.

Crafty poem! And I thought it was the artiste who had to do all the suffering!;)

goldenrod.

Quote:

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Now, of course, I will have to google Bob Ross

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Ahhh, Bob Ross...loved watching his show when I was kid.
In a 30 minute, commercial-less episode, he could turn a blank canvas
into an impressive landscape painting. I need to look up some of the episodes online if I can.