Painted painted painted painted painted
paint paint paint paint paint
It’s hard to describe an overload
When the in comes in and it just won’t go
I stare at a wall, I shake, say no
But I can’t say no when the shutters close
I can’t say no when there’s no more no
And all there is is green and pink and paint
Paint paint paint paint paint
There’s no one thing that makes me go
A tindered flint to ignite my woe
It could be anything: hair, a cat, the snow
But today it was paint
The word alone made me quiver
Shake and tremble like the words of winter
I stared at the wall to shake the feeling
Locked myself down ‘til my senses stopped reeling
And soon I was feeling and seeing, alive
The tidal wave ceased, it didn’t crash but subside
And I was still here, claw marks in my sides
With the smell of the paint just waiting outside.

This disease struck me
Like a brick on pavement
Hard

Everything was
Perfect
Then that brick came along
And with the slightest movement
Destroyed everything

“Count it
Perfect it
Measure it
Clean it”
The voices say

Why can’t I let them go?
They keep repeating:

“Count it
Perfect it
Measure it
Clean it”
Why won’t they stop

“Count it
Perfect it
Measure it
Clean it”
I don’t understand

“Count it
Perfect it
Measure it
Clean it”
Someone just HELP me understand

This disease is about
Perfection
But it's the biggest
Imperfection about me

"I hope to arrive at my death, late, in love, and a little drunk"

we do not write poetry
we write mirrors
which are held up
to curious faces
who read
looking for their
own reflections

To the next person who says St.Patrick’s day is all about leprechauns and rainbows:
I will grab my ancestors’ immigration papers and beat you over the head with them.

Tho' modern pen has lost a cursive touch
and words archaic; poet's old cliches,
electric type has still the phrase to clutch
and render beauty's make through sonnet praise.

Have I then prompt to key my quill to prove
iambic worth has ink for grace so rare?
Tho' words cannot do just, nor then improve
but page her beaut for those that cannot stare.

A lady's fair in metered writ, romance!
And have so in; revered poems of old
now newer peach must too afford a chance
to muse a bard, that none her flair withhold.

Let modern sonnet's ode new blush to art!
And tho' from present phrase, they still impart.

Paint me a picture
Of your skin
Does it bronze beneath the sun?
Or sizzle and blush
Like your cheeks
When you’re in love?
Is it soft to the touch
Like when your palms graze
The smooth surface of water?
Or rough around the edges
Like your favorite book
And its lovingly worn corners?
Does it melt in the heat
Like sweet syrupy treats
Dripping through your fingers?
Or does it welcome the winter
With wide open arms
As if greeting a lover?
Paint me a picture
Of your skin

I'm not cool
Never been cool
I've been with the women
And lived the many long nights
But I was never cool
I was never the "man"
I was just myself
And I can look into the mirror now