When you have flown... far, far away.
Be safe in the knowledge that I will be okay.
Each step I take a milestone on this journey we call ‘ life’.
There’s a rainbow in the distance, beyond this pain and strife.
When you lie in bed at night....don’t cry a tear for me.
For I am on my journey just like you,  I’m breaking free.

I once grew my hair down to my waist.
But then I cut it. Cuz long hair is overrated.

I once dyed my brown hair blonde.
But then I hid in my room. Cuz blonde hair is overrated.

I once wore blue eye contacts.
But then I instantly took them off. Cuz blue eyes are overrated.

I once caked my eyelids with eyeshadow.
But then I wiped it off. Cuz makeup is overrated.

I once became a millionaire.
But then I gave away all my money to charities. Cuz money is overrated.

I once got a fake tan.
But then I wore long sleeves and jeans. Cuz tan skin is overrated.

I once shopped at Express.
But then I gave all my clothes to Goodwill and shopped there instead. Cuz expensive clothes are overrated.

Don't change who you are just to please others.

Cuz perfection is overrated.

How can we dance
when the birds
are dead?
Cut the tumor
out of my mind
(not my soul
-it is pure,
            beautiful.)

I woke up too late,
my train has left.
         That's how
             I feel.
2000 years old train
Destination: City of the Sane.
I will catch it,
however, I'll leave
before the final station
Is reached.

I don't mind
roaming the woods for ever,
walking the meadows
and climbing the hills.

     I refuse.

River man takes his journey
through mearending reeds,
he's  got truth in his pocket
a diary of promises unsated.
For a shilling he take you to
hangmans corner,
a place to clear your head,
for a throw of the dice
he show you
the secret of life itself,
but beware of his wry smile!

it's the way her hand moves back and forth in the air
as she's thinking
Like a maestro, conducting
an orchestra;
but it's her mind,
unfolding.
cue the crash of cymbals,
jarring
-- and silence.
//
Cue the image of her ex husband,
and the flat landscape which was their marriage
and the heat which hovered on the horizon,
like unreachable dreams,
taking on the form of
water.
but she cracked with dry reality.
cue the salt on her lips

-- crash.

//

and here we bring in the street preacher,
who can't keep his eyes on her face.

he reminds her if the desert.

he reminds her that sometimes we must cover up the curves to keep from stumbling our weak brothers who cannot resist the presence of wine,
(but she is not the wine.)
//
women are not the wine,
and men are not the drunkards.
women are not the wine,
or any other intoxicating substance.
neither are they meat sacrificed to idols,

or meat at all.
//
cue the crash of resounding cymbals
and it breaks her train of thought
but it does not break her
//
and the desert did not **** her
and the drunkard can not taste her

cue the crash

-- and silence.

first

find the most interesting, beautiful, and important part of your figure;
observe with fresh eyes, and new hands
until you can touch the figure in your mind

but

do not hold him just yet.

transform him to his most basic and essential qualities.
observe the way light plays against his skin, the darker shadows under his neck, the curve of his lips
the muscles along his arms and blood in his veins
holding your brush with care, start an outline

go slow at this stage

find a way to capture his gaze.
a gaze away could mean disinterest or distraction
an animated gaze forward means your figure is engaged

next

trace him with your brush
focusing on the base of his neck,
his broad, naked shoulders,
his back and the curves that connect to his thighs.

when you have an outline: wait

wait until you hear the pounding of your own heartbeat
paint the feeling of his hands against your hips
wait until you feel his lips brush up against
the base of your neck,
your slender, naked shoulders,
your back
your stomach
and lower

at this very moment, you feel yourself painted by him

you become a shade, a highlight, a smudge back into the canvas
and he pulls you in closer
until you both become one image

you watch him as he takes your paint brush away
you are naked and you do not remember if he painted
your clothing off with a brush of his own
or if you took them off yourself

such trivial detail is not essential to the big picture

this is when the real picture is painted
when you yourself become a series of circles and textures
and your body no longer feels real

you are two figures, ready to be painted

you capture this moment.