Layers of life laid out
Words like scratchy stroked paint
Scorched Harsh brush over

Life brushes new thoughts
Stillness can prevail the mind
Where once was cluttered

Splatter moments stay
In the stillness of my heart
Canvas of my life

Why don’t you paint me
Like I am?
Paint me staring out a window, wishing to be free
Where light shines through as happy things

Paint me thinking about life
Thinking about death
Paint me with all the things I suppress

Paint me in a place to keep me warm
Paint me in a beautiful storm

Paint me somewhere safe
Somewhere where I’m not a disgrace
With no more masks on my face

Paint me without my fears
Without any more tears
Paint me without my insecurity’s
Paint me so my scars won’t show.

Paint me with ink on my hands
And fire in my eyes
And tell me, what would you see?

Paint me with passion
Paint me with ease
But most of all paint me as ME.

they paint a picture of me:
black and white and grey.
i pose for them,
so still I have forgotten how to breathe,
my lungs aching
and my head spinning.  
they paint only
the portrait they want to see
obscuring my flaws
and covering all the bits of me.
black and white and grey,
black and white and grey.
i drag my fingers
through a bright color
and smudge it across the canvas.
they want be to be
black and white and grey,
but maybe
pink was my color all along.

Painting shades of blue
the tinted clouds
over the rainbow
jumped away.

Now it's a diving black swan
somewhere down the all
clear lapis lazuli blue sky.

Only one is left behind
wish I was with my butterfly!

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.

Am I too early
or so so very late?
Time is but a smudge
of mixed acrylic paint.

My history, the canvas
and my pen a brush.
Time is but a smudge
dripping through my clutch.

Dreams blur into nightmares;
nightmares into day-time thoughts.
Time is but a smudge
of profits and loss.

When the end comes
my journal will be passed.
Time is but a smudge
that my children will grasp.

They will both read
of my love for them.
Time is but a smudge
in this infinite realm.

They will both know
how much I love them so.
Time is but a smudge
and if it weren't for them I would of let go.

Time is but a smudge
in an never ending orbit
time is but a smudge
and they have made it euphoric.

She settles in your heart
like paint
in the fine lines of
your shirt
never fully-able
to wash her out

                  

                    (the stains: a comforting reminder of what was once there)