A painter paints a canvas full of pictures;
A picture paints a moment trapped in time.
A poet writes a poem to be pictured;
A poem paints a picture in the mind.

We’re different, you and me, we’re different
As if we’re made in different worlds indeed,
As if we’re fed on different dew furthermore,
As if we’re covered by different felt on creed.

We’re strange, you and me, we’re strange.
We should go away in all directions, in whole,
Not to be for all, not to touch each other,
To be walled-up behind different walls at all.

We’re crazy, you and me, we’re crazy.
We’ve tried to run away both so often.
But our fate has marked us with a “cancel” sign
And simply decided not let us go, just no one.

We’re different, you and me, we’re different
As if bitter frost and caressing spring in other way.
We have different palettes, you and me, different palettes.
But the canvas is one, one for two of us, anyway.

And we have to paint our further life by the will of fate,
In four hands on one canvas therefore.
You know, I don’t like to paint and I’m not good at it.
I’ll better hold the palettes for you evermore.

Verdant and lush cliffs of green,
Tangled ivy and hyacinth,
Living brushstrokes paint a scene,
Bright and peaceful labyrinth,

Sweet scent wafting in the breeze,
Reflected light crowns each swell,
Sapphiric hues swirl the seas,
Cobalt depths where shadows dwell,

Granite peaks with greyscale shroud,
Icy peaks where snowflakes fall,
Silent glaciers cloaked in cloud,
Titans tower over all,

Maple, oak, and evergreen,
Dancing sway with nature song,
Lusher robes than kings have seen,
Vines and willows ever long.

I love a blank canvas
how it focuses the eyes.

It’s black and white without
the usual vestige of messy
attention-grabbing details.

We’ll color those in later,
spending our creative time
whitewashing it with the precision
of our own nervous perfectionism.

We’ll strip away minimalism for cultural
resonance and focus the razor attention
of ‘couture’ obsession and wider comment.
.
.
Songs for this:
Just Exist by Eliza & The Delusionals
Groceries by Mallrat

I laugh at the young light
and gift colour full rein
cover the ground at speed
flex the holy spectrum
into deep infernal textures
boldly release hinted hues
hidden to the casual eye
stroke my rivals into life
created at the break of day
capture unnatural advantage
in this leg of the human race
to reach God's rest
at the creation's edge

I look... empty, gray
and before that, crowds were peeked in

Everyone laughs, smiles
and my empty painting presses me against the wall without a moment's thought

I see someone painting my picture frames
With a different brush than the grave, the altar

He paints with words, good deeds
The image becomes something different from the gray and half-world reverie

He is a painter, a painter of my life's painting.

Blank canvas,
Is still creative.
Because the fact is,
You can only paint an original blank painting,
Once.