Still Painting

I have sewn my lips shut,

Heart sealed away in my chest,

These wrists only know the touch of anger,

When will they be caressed?

Against my principles,

I have committed treason,

Not regrets I bear,

For I have many a reason,

I shall be the silence,

As an empty, dead town,

I'd rather be a still painting,

Than be painted as a clown,

My fingers in the past gentle,

Used at most to cease my wails,

Hiding from the world is not enough,

Now I think when I sharpen my nails.