All of my friends describe their lives with color,
creating vivid displays of emotion and art,
and if I were to pour my soul into one of these displays,
and brush a canvas with my words,

I guess I would start somewhere with the negative.

A midnight blue finds itself on my brush when an emptiness is present,
and a touch of this hue mixed with a granite gray soon becomes the loneliness, almost always paired with the melancholy.
My brush shifts upwards towards violet and juniper green, and I find myself becoming more content with being alone.

Then I paint the anger,
The crimson red and fire orange penetrate the mellow colors of depression and point fingers at others.
With each brush stroke I torch another bridge, leaving my friends in ashes and my pride untouched.
Black streaks of hatred stain my canvas and my love while I try my best to calm down.
And once the rage dries up and settles, and we get past my mindless mistakes, I move on to the positive side of my art.

Light greens and yellows dance upon the blank white canvas while I Paint Summer nights and pastel skylines.
Shades of sapphire pass by when Laughing with all of my friends and adoring her perfect freckled face.
These colorful drugs course through my thoughts, and leave me with a love for life and a honest smile.

I wear these hues at different times, and drench myself in the life they give,
painting canvases and promises for others, and living in a world of my own colors.
Accenting pain, sorrow, and sadness. Punctuating love, joy, and living .


                                                 My words.
                                                 My canvas.
                                                 My beloved.
                                                 My life.

Lichtenstein crashed into Monet's garden under the mistaken impression that a pulse of pop would compliment the oil on water, but instead his WHAAM missed its target and his POW wept hot, bleaching the aqua white with noise and ripping the lilies to shreds.
'Oh, Claude,' he cried, 'it's a masterpiece!'

Faces painted all around
but they made no sound
Seeking glass eyes found;
Open book kept bound

I paint the picture with pastel colors.
Dotting the sky in pink clouds
While the horizon lay in an amber slumber.
A single pine tree slanted towards the crystal lake;
I draw another for companionship.
And it soon blooms into a forest
With shrubs and blackberry bushes and ferns,
Then I make a ripple in the lake
With leaves that drift along the gentle current
To the farther edges of the tender loch.

I envisioned the clear waters of the wetlands
As I cleaned my pallet and washed away the paint,
Like how painting landscapes washed away my worries.

I could paint black and red and pink and glittery golden all over my face
and hands, and arms, and *******
and then spit painty ***** to see it turn into a galaxy
I could cut open my veins
and add flow to the piece
and I could maybe then attract
everyone else to admire this art.