All I can see
is what is wrong
with me.
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I wish I had my paintbrushes
nearly empty plastic paint pints
the gold is a dribble
the yellow has dried...
and cracked...
as if the sun has withered
and left the plants to die.

But the life,
dark forest green is growing
midnight blue flowing
out the top onto paint-glued wood.

I want to paint a landscape,
I want to paint the rain
I want to paint the moon
captured gleaming silver with slivers of cyan.
I want to paint my pain
rid it from my body
free it from my eyes.