I Paint.


Not on a canvas of course
My hand shakes much too much for that
No
I paint in my head.

Masterpieces

Shimmerring towers of impunity
Castles of future conquests and quests.  
I paint everything.

I paint you

You're a lot nicer in my paintings
Maybe I'm just a good painter.

Anyway
These paintings are so realistic
So vivid.
So lifelike.

I see no reason why they should not exist

Because for one I am a great printer.
And for two I am realist.

So I set forth with my brush
Set upon bringing my art to life.

And I am always so close
The broad strokes each stringing together in a cohesive tone.

But still
If you approach it like a Monet
And examine it dutifully
You see it does not match my original masterpiece.

But how is this possible?

I am a great painter

This I know.

Shouldn't I be able to bring my simplest machinations into fruition?

I am a painter sure

If you belive that an architect is a construction worker

I am a painter

But I only build frames
Not Buildings

She stood waiting.
Waiting as the stars await the suns eventual death.
As the desert awaits that one translucent drop of absolete euphoria.
Her lips cracked open,
A sliver of fragile hope escaping its tremors.
Fluttering away.
She is surrounded by exquisite misery,
Drowning in hysteria.
Day folding into night,
The moon running circles.
She stood waiting,
With the sound of stinging memories reverberating endlessly.
Touch, smell, touch, love.
All catapulting into that final crescendo,
Where all those moments
Flow into the sea of those hauntingly beautiful words,
**I Am Here