When I think of life,
I see an empty canvas ready to be painted upon,
or open blank pages that are waiting to be written on.
A baby is born, their first words in a book say;
"where am I?"
"what is this world"
"this is so cool"
or some babies have an anxiety
"bring me back into mothers womb?"
"I' am scared, what is this?"
But as you say, they do not know how to speak our language, maybe not by tongue but in their little cubicle minds...they have a language we once understood then only time could tell....
When I think of life,
I see empty pages and canvases waiting to be spilled onto,
but some art dusty and rusty, gone through 0-100 and have no space left but to die and leave it to the rest, because all those pages have been fulfilled.
Life carries on, into the next barrier of a woman's womb...and that is truly where the first page starts, or the first speck of paint draws...into the ****** of a fruitful woman most babies will call their mother.

Dream your life in watercolours,
Live your life in oils,
Frame your canvases with time and distance;

Hang each by a silver thread,
In a windowed gallery of memories,
Exhibit often and without discrimination;

Celebrate the beauty in your clumsiest brushwork,
Accept the imperfections in your mastery,
Reshape your truths, as light plays and colour transforms.

She is the unsung lyrics,
the pieces of her favorite quotes stitched together.
When one plucks the lyre of her heart
melancholy melody soothes another heart.

She is a pallet full of rich and moody colors.
Sometimes she is bold like the streak of red of the sky at dawn
or delicate as soothing soft colored pastels.
At times she's vibrant
with her colors high on hue
and at times she is dim and quite.

She is contoured with passion;
whirlwind of colors
coaxing the brushstroke
as she is canvassed.

She is the evocative strokes
of a tempestuous soul
of curious contrast;
an exquisit chaos.

She is the raw,
broken tiles pieced together
into a mosaic
s intricate masterpiece like picasso's.

Her body
Her soul
is constantly moulding
sculpting into a phasing masterpiece.

She is an album;
a gallery.
She wasn't built to validate
to be understood
and loved by all
She's supposed to make you feel in the way she thought.

For she is the enigmatic narrative of her truth
and a beautiful ambiguity.

Some pour any ointment they can find upon their insides so that they might stop the aching,
in some attempt to make all they can focus on a blur.
So that all they bottled up can flow away and stop the drain upon their life.

There are those who sit looking at canvases that they might seek to mark so many times
it would create something of beauty if it would only hide the ugliness beneath.
As if to carve some crack through which a light might shine and blot out the dark.
A light that might be found as friend or mother or lover that on the other side is a life preserver,
a sanctuary,
a single point afloat in all the world held onto so tightly
the white knuckle ride that would seem to only end when they let go.

But to let go,
                         is to fall.

to fall into that sea that numbs that crowds that never lets up.

To fall and stop so suddenly the world gives out below.

Were it not for those who hold us tight in some attempt to pull us up
there would be but one thing to stop the fall.
The people we talk with and dance with and live with can be the only things holding us up,
but those lines feel so thin that they might break at the slightest tug
so we hope they might somehow form a net,
something to catch us and carry us away to shore,

where finally
we can lay and rest.