Scarlet patch

The scarlet hands of society is silencing a woman's voice.

I am standing here in front of the canvas,
Staring at the plain white paper,
Thinking where to start off with my brush,
Trying to unveil the inner painter.

My mind is cramming with the thoughts of today,
Imagining the amount of pleasure he had attained,
In the afternoon bus that I take everyday,
That's where my body had been stained.

His abysmal tap on my bosom,
Might have satisfied his virile worth,
But that had left my soul numb,
While no one in the jammed bus had cared to come forth.

My unsettled mind can think of nothing,
My rugged emotions are ablazed,
My inner self feels pinned down with a string,
Clutching the brush I paint bright red.

That scarlet patch seems to fill my void,
Tears come rolling down my cheeks,
So easily today my vivacity had been soiled,
His shallow self has wrecked me for weeks.