The words like the colors should come to the fore,
furiously.
Unflinching resolve to viciously slash at canvas,
or parchment, or delicately craft a deep emotion inducing delicious diatribe in image.

It's the context that views the blank space,
it's the content carried forth in stroke
after stroke, stenciled line,
after stenciled line.

The fire ignites from within the core,
that sets the essence into progenerative
existence.
Maybe for the eyes of another,
the therapy of a shaken psyche,
or simply so the soul does not smother
from the excess creative exaltations
sitting upon overflowing shelves,
a constant mind processes,
and saves for later.

And the stoic honor blank parchment
offers through kinetic waves;
any device for liquid release is grasped, grabbed,
dipped, or wiped, removing old color
replacing with new. If you could enter
the room, you would smell the creativity imbued
in the air, an aromatic ambiance both synergetic
energy, and compulsory release. A lust for example
of what resides for later dissection, but for now
the craft should be the only focus, its
transmission all the chaos this world can
handle.

And the hand seems to move in rhythm
with the whirring sound of the fan overhead,
the refrigerator in the kitchen,
any innocuous distraction forgotten,
so the fury being executed precisely,
remains the filling of empty margins.
Corners aren't confines, they're guidelines,
reminding there are no limits here,
set a new precipice.

The colors should scream to the next canvas,
the ink to the next page.
Each turn, each emptied tube,
comes wonderful release, magnificent creation.
This is my artistic mayhem!