she wanted to paint over
the marks on her face
to create a blank canvas
so their eyes would not
drill holes into her pores.
but before she could paint,
two arms wrapped around her,
slowly turning her around.
her eyes were downcast
as he kissed her every mark.
"I love your constellations.
Please don't hide them,"
he gently whispered.
she pulled him closer,
leaning back onto the counter.
the brush fell to the ground
as they savored their sweet love.

It's not that I don't want to get it, you're just empty.
Drained of empathy and utterly absurd.

I'm not being careless, if anything- I'm quite the opposite.
So I just choose to remain silent and brush your thoughts away.
You chose to devour me
Cautiously-
Giving in, eventually.

woke up
with the sound
of jet engines
thundering, overhead
streaming the sky
brush strokes on high
of red and black

jumped at
straight back
from the bomb
they dropped
square in my living room

walking away
another day
i'll be back
when dust settles
amidst no attacks
on the sandy soil
of my
homeland

Nipped the brush, picked the paint, let the canvas fill
Oh my crush, like a saint, keep your head still
Let me first, draw the sketch, what a cute face!
Body next, let me fetch, lovely gaze and grace
Lines are made, streaks of color, your portrait is good
Bit of shade, made it duller, a monkey in woods.

that i liked the song your
boyfriend made.
i don’t. its bad. it doesnt mean
he is bad, just the song is bad.

all the alcohol i “drank” and
all the times i got “****** up”
or “smashed” in between
the ages of zero and nineteen.
lies. all i knew was the sadness
of others, my neighbours magnum opus.
why would i ever touch a brush for
myself when i could remake something
we all agree is beautiful.

when you once told me that
if two people stand at opposite sides
of the room and close their eyes,
if they keep walking forward
they’ll kiss. and when it didn’t
work the first time i guided you
into my lips and you smiled like
the sun was in us in that moment.

is that so wrong

I walk,
A thick brush
Paints my way

I cross,
An inked bridge
My feet black

I stop,
The black brush
Paints a crossroad

I sit,
days pass by
As I ponder

I decide,
A blackened path
Walking on ink

I wait,
The brush draws
More diverging paths

I reach,
Holding the brush
Snapping in half

I look,
My body covered
In black ink

I walk,
My body blackened
My path white

he painted flourishing gardens
and stunning landscapes
using a palette of superb
colour drapes

in his homeland they toast
him with champagne
for his canvases hang
in their art gallery's lane

his works are worth
many millions of dollars
and they've been studied
by generations of scholars

of the impressionist style
was he
he had brush daubing
down to a tee

paint me a picture
if you possibly can
that will tell me
of this creative man