she started the way other silhouettes did;
clean, pure, a scratch out of sight.
she was a blank canvas with no watercolor
until she met him.
he provided her with every possible color,
from lavender, to rouge, to wine.
it was after countless of seconds
that he smeared azure on her.
garnet soon followed.
raven did not want to be left behind either.
what used to be a porcelain canvas
had now turned into a parade of colors
with holes and scratches in the fabric.

Artist
That’s what you said you were.

But are you really?

Coming to my doorstep with the promise of blues
And reds
And all shades of purple.
With your paintbrushes
Set and new.
You said every stroke
Was me and unique
That every curve was
Drawn
and accentuated
to perfection.

Unware was I to what you were going to steal…

Because what you left me with was raw
Blacks
and reds
in crisscrosses
and arms
legs and
hearts torn apart
with bitter irony.
Every stroke
was inevitable
and laced with
the real scent
of horror.

I was the canvas.
But did that make me a work of art?

I hate how I can't sleep at night.
Why does my body put up a fight?
I yawn like I'm gasping for air.
So I lay there listening to "The Prayer".

Pulling out a pen helps me sleep.
Rather than imagining and counting sheep.
My spilled ink allows me to create a universe on a smooth surface.
Like Van Gogh with a canvas.

I write till my face hits the table.
Every night is the same, so I stay up planning my next travel.
Sometimes I'll wake tearing a page off my face.
I'll read it then throw it straight into the fireplace.

Until yesterday
I was
unaware.
Blind.
Un-conscious
to the
power of choices
that rested within me.
All my tools and colors
were chosen by others
and
were handed over to me.
That was until yesterday !

Today is a different day !
For today I choose
the landscape
the background
the scheme of colors
the medium
the strokes of my brush.

I choose them all
to paint on the new
canvas I get handed in
each day
with consciousness and
in full awareness.

And every once in a while
I like to
pause,
stand away from it all
and
take pride
in what's shaping up to be
a Masterpiece -
the very purpose
for which the Master
created me.

If I painted all my feelings
like I've wished to
The amount of canvas dripping blood
from my exploding heart would be staggering

You feel like poison in my veins,
but maybe you're just good
at disguising damage,

I could make a mosaic
out of my own pieces,
but I'm choosing to share
my canvas with you,

So why do you insist
on painting me blue?

Oh my God, please cover me with your colorful veil
Help me not to derail in this world of strangeness
Give me strong wings to fly, give me courage to sail
Paint me with your color from your beautiful canvas

Take me in your shelter like a mother takes her child
Make me to stand on my feet to move with all grace
Change my nature to a wonderful being not just wild
Protect me in your lap ,take in your arms to embrace

Less you no one cares me while you have very many
Please make me your staunch servant to make me free
I am a sinner and full of sins please do not get angry
My only wish is to see please allow me to be with to see

Accept my prayers ,do not leave me to assaults of hell
I have left myself at your mercy to bloom to grow,  glow
I am a beggar of your charity and graces allow to dwell
Come in me be my heart allow me to take stream to flow

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
copyright 2016 Golden Glow

9 | 31 Poems for August 2016

She unapologetically loves each and every crevice of her canvas.
Each part regally resonates to the woman who birthed her.
Each part elegantly exudes the exuberance of its own beauty.
The curves on her body are more than just her dress or jean size.
More than the heads of men which turn as she walks down the street.
Her curves are her heritage – a beautiful sign of where home is.
Through pain she found love and through love she found herself.
We meet in the pages of our story where the ink intimately holds us together.
These words I write become intertwined in the veins of our loving hearts.
In the rain of her presence, my words will always form a rainbow.
I can never get enough of her love; I’m always left yearning for more.
In a world ravaged by cold wars, we both know what we’re fighting for.
She has never spent a day letting the world turn her starry sky into a ceiling.
She wears her crown proudly and embraces the queen that she is.
The curves on her body are more than just her dress or jean size.
More than the whistles which dissipate the silence as she enters the room.
Her curves are her heritage – a beautiful sign of where home is.
The world is my canvas and I hope this African queen will always be my muse.