Painted This

 If she gives you

Perhaps a view

To look into

What’s left within

Her painted truth

In any sense

You just might sense

How senselessness

Her own defense

Has

In a sense

Died

A senseless

Death

With every breath

Aye, waste of grace

Touch her hand
Not her face

Feel her brow

What was there

Though nothing now

Has still learned how

Her lame disguise

Of make-up lies

That still denies

Her made up lies

Are covered up blame

Of her secret shame

 That marks up the face

Of our wasted grace

Takes many low blows

When over-blown egos

Again comes to blows

Few understand

A striking hand

With steady stare

Has shifted her there

On the edge somewhere

Some when, some how

Right there, lost in mind

Half here and half-blind

Finds her semi-self

In the poorest of health

So blowing her a kiss

She won’t even know

But may well know this

She always won’t miss

Any of this
Manipulative shit

 One single bit