It's strange,
sometimes words seem foreign to me,
and it feels like they'll never be big enough
to hold my emotions.
The very idea of writing a poem
seems like wishful thinking,
something best left to those chosen ones
who know how.

Other times, words are my tools,
my painting set.
They differ in color
and some even have personalities.
I dip my brush into them
and proceed to paint,
using small dots and splotches
like Seurat.
My words simply flow out of me faster than I can write them
leaving me slightly euphoric
the way I imaging George does after he finishes a painting.