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)

was among the lanterns again
flashlights again
among the stars again in the middle of the world
again among the planets again among
the sun again among the paints again
among the lamps all over again
again and again among the lanterns

I walked boldly along the streets
I walked along the streets and walked on and on
I went boldly and boldly to the streets
but why and where did I go but why
but why and among the lanterns I was and
among lanterns and among lanterns and among
only lanterns and starlight

28.09.18

Your thoughts are like paint dripping off a canvas
Decorating the floor with your ideas
The reds and blues
A thousand hues
But one color always seems to be missing.

The museum is filled to the brim with your art
A rainbow of pain and love
An ocean of wonder
Every color you could come up with.
All but one.

You paint the sky and the moon
The stars and the forests
You draw out the sunsets and silhouettes
You’ve painted a galaxy.
But you think it’s incomplete.

You are my favorite artist.
I could stare at the pieces you create forever
And hope that I could be the color you need.
That one day,
You could paint me pink.

The youth have charged us by storm
You soul is soft, weathered, yet tough.
Even though the thread is thin
We hold tight with a fatal grip.
After prolonged, inevitable erosion
It would make sense to simply let go.

To paint the line we’ve created
A string must measure the length
Of how much time it’s been
To find the end of the string
Is one no soul keeps in mind.
All we unconsciously ache for
Is the end of the line.

How sad that is.

There on the tar
Lies paint with a purpose
We wander too far
Over the lines of hierarchy
Destined to face the consequences
Set by the ones whose eyes
Have experienced this all before.

Troubled souls state simply
That lines are meant to be crossed
They say this with impulse in limbs
With zero regard for the tarnished ending.
Souls of this demeanor
Will never wholy construct the finish
Solely being because of velocity.

You’ve state the line is blurred
The paint is worn or faded
Yet I still stand here listening.
This road has been shattered by youth
The less weathered assume the sun
Would’ve dried the paint by now.
Little do they know
The paint has always been wet.

As I stare out in front of me,
I see a beautiful creature small and fail
She cannot breathe as the weight of her life is pushing on her chest
And taking the breath from her ever-collapsing lungs
She sees me standing near her
Watching her
And lifts a hand to me
As I take it
Her skin turns pale and her struggle for breath ends
She cannot breathe
For her life has been taken by stress that she did not cause
Her face molds into a frown and yellow paint seeps out of every crevice
And sunflowers find their way into the light
Her lifeless body gives life to happiness and joy
When her life was so sad
And dull
Her wardrobe is being packed away by men who did not even know the girl
It is not their job to know
But to only pack away items of no use
The garments are small enough for a child
But the creature herself had been alive for two decades
She would not let herself eat
Otherwise, no one would love her
Except for the people who love sunflowers and yellow paint

Tinted and tainted
All their faces are painted
Like roses whose souls are sown
Unable to grow from a concrete phone

In the land of a loner, unknown
What stays in the shower is rarely shown
And lucky enough to become sainted
Is one more face to be repainted