we paint a perfect picture,
a beautiful portrait of us
surrounded by flowers,
when our love's put on paper,
in a pretty little frame
hung on the wall,
like a kid's art
on the fridge door.

we're paint with our hands,
it gets messy and everywhere.
we yell and we scream,
hearts shatter and color splatters
across the room.
everything is covered in acrylics,
watercolors, oil paints.
some stains will wash out, others won't.

we paint delicate little details
afterwards,
as though a wrong brushstroke
could ruin the beauty,
ignoring the fact
that we may already have.
it's stiff and it feels wrong,
but that's the price of 'perfect'.

we paint with passion,
practically kissing the paper,
leaving the imprint of our lips,
our love, right there.
signing our names
in the bottom right corner,
as though we were really artists
making real art.

How can this be?
These vessels swim on
A cellophane sea

It’s art,

As they move
Slowly constricted
Somewhat restricted, on
A cellophane sea

The crane swoops down
Barely misses a fish with
Tissue paper fins
It would have
Been a meager
Lunch

The eye of
A paper mache
Hurricane moves in,
Slowly crawls
It flows,
It flows,
They all survive,
On a cellophane sea