Give an infant a blank canvas and paints and watch him instantaneously dress the white square with sloppy lines of reds, blues and yellows.
Crossing each other in no logical sequence.
Mixing into awful shades of greens and browns.
But observe his face as he does so.
And you will see his face flushed with joy,
With every rush of the brush.
With no designated design in mind.
He loves to paint.

Give an adult a blank canvas and paints.
And the first thing he'll ask you is;
"What do you want me to paint?"

How can it be
that you can have everything
and still want more?
Am I greedy when I ask
"is there anything else?"

How can it be
that the ties of friendship
can be undone?
Are they not elastic?
Aren't they impervious
to the ever-shifting sands of time
that weather meeker men
down to disassociated
piles of dust?

How can it be
that you can plant roots
that spread and intertwine themselves,
seemingly immune to any upward motion,
just to pluck them from the ground
that nurtured them for years
and place them somewhere
unlike anything they've ever known?

How can it be
that the world can hold so many secrets
and yet our instincts tell us
to discover the truth?
No secret was ever discovered
by trusting a single source;
like the threads of a dream-catcher,
we entangle ourselves in multiple realms
to capture what we seek.

I don't know which face means more:
the smiling ones
that coax me into song, and folly,
and memories as precious as time,
or the one blemished with melancholy
as it stares back at me
knowing there's so much more.

How can it be
that we have an imagination
as wide as the universe,
and yet we never dare
to find the borders?

I still feel you here
(how dare you)
as I lay in bed
next to her.

I look at your picture
and I get upset
knowing I lost the love for myself
by investing it all in you.

But I still visit you
whenever I can;
you're not hard to find -
I put you there.

I can still taste
the fruits of your ***
and that unrelenting craving
for just one more lie;
it's sweeter than anything
I've ever known.

I brought you here once
and you always find your way back.

You are the cause of your own suffering*
I tell myself everyday,
but I still bathe in silt and shame.
Rinse. Recycle. Repeat.

I tell myself everyday
how mundane it is to be redundant:
Rinse. Recycle. Repeat.
Everybody that looks at me sees

how mundane it is to be redundant.
You only get one masterpiece;
everybody that looks at me sees
that's not a rainbow, it's an oil spill.

You only get one masterpiece,
but I still bathe in silt and shame -
that's not a rainbow, it's an oil spill.
You are the cause of your own suffering.