My face like a canvas
And I am the artist
I grab my paintbrush
Dipping it in the paint on my pallet
I bring the bristles up to my lips
And I begin my masterpiece
Painting on a beautiful smile
For all to see
But no matter how realistic my art looks
The smile will always be a painting

Would it be wrong
to attempt painting the blank canvas
that's been sitting in my attic
for longer than I've had it?

To witness the sky paint itself
shades you've never seen;
blooming with thorns of yearning
as your gaze turns away?

Or to be drowned
by the soft reflection
of worldly glee,
as the moon begins to fall?

Oh, tell me --

Is it really wrong
to pour your heart out,
when you've never had anything
to pour at all?

Memories are what we would call
the ephemeral hues
on the canvas of time,

the intricate outlines
of painstaking work
seeming a blur from the distance;

all blending into the faded echoes
of our past regrets.

The wind caresses my cheeks
The flowers’ sweetness scent fills my lungs
My hand travels on the canvas
While guided by the soft brush.
What a beautiful sensation
Almost idyllic…

Sat in this marvelous garden
I let my imagination merge with the beauty around me
Escaping the cruel reality
The one which can no longer affect me.
I am free
Finally free from anguish and fear
Free from anything that caused me despair at the only thought

Free from the time, which has ceased going forward
Free from responsibilities, which have ceased suffocating me
Free from people, who have ceased having expectation of me
Free from the fright of the new day, which has ceased raising in surprise
And free from life, which has finally ceased causing me death.

with a can of spray paint.
I tag my name across the wall of your heart.
my love for you condensed,
shaken up, expanding through
the burst of a nozzle.
swirls of tie-dye,
colliding in pink monochrome and blue.
Vibing, tripping.
After spray freckles tiptoe as high as my arm will reach.
And as low as my knee will allow.
chaos drips in small bubbles soon to dry.
Running through rough open spaces
Where paint used to be.
condensed circles, widening out to bigger circles.
your heart my canvas.
there is no such thing as running out of room.
the best things in life overlap and cross over
into each other.
my name splashed monochrome.
shaken up, expanding through
the burst of a nozzle.
I am swirling in love.
In every shade and in every hue.
coloring outside the lines.
your heart's a kaleidoscope
intertwined between the space of my fingers.
Life imitates art.
Art imitates love.
I imitate you.

a perfect canvas can get away with anything,
even destruction.
nothing done to it will destroy it, only make it shine.
add this, and add that.
pile on all the things that made everybody else undesirable.
instead of revolting, you become art.
was it a transformation of the hands or one of the eyes?
it’s like you had become adorned with colour and shine
instead of a veil to hide your reality.
the blandness beneath,
or the stark truth behind you.

mayhap it was a transformation of the heart.
it seems as though one may have bartered their life
just to be worthy of a glimpse
for five more minutes.
perhaps not merely a glimpse,
more, a lifetime.
what is it about