This paint brush has become
an extension of my hand.
It has sunk it's color pumping living
veins into me.
Now, my hand aches
dripping crimson, everytime I put it down.

This pen has become an extension of my hand.
A sixth finger extends dripping ebony
ever scratching ivory surface,
vexing to keep the hourglass full,
of sand.

I am no longer
My body.
     I am my tools of creation.

He has eyes you can drown in but I am reluctant to swim, he is very charming and has fire within. He can make me happy and he can make me sad but I don't want him to see the true me Because no one ever has, no, I don't mean my shell I mean my soul for I fear if he looks within I will lose control. So here is my version I have made for myself the picture I paint for everyone else.

And today,
I want to paint
dreams for you.
Dreams painted
between the gaps
of our fingers.
Sipid and Wild.

I See a picture,
Dear with color bright.
Its whimsical strokes,
A smooth, but lovely, Sight.

I Smell the paint,
A sense not faded yet.
Like prints left exposed,
With the trail's fine Scent.

But underestimated, the Tool,
And ability to express
The ideas my head
Conjures as a coordinated mess.

Yes, the paintbrush,
Much simpler than I,
Yet it works its hardest,
While I don't even try.

as a child i believed in monsters
magic
and innocence
but i have learnt
over my years
that life isn't all sunshine and rainbows
we are canvases marked in colour
from our experiences
some darker than others
some lighter
but all of those brush strokes  
are a picture of beauty
our highs
and lows
acrylic on graphite
soft pastel hues
on angry slashes of colour
water colour wishes and charcoal sorrows

i am a painter
no master by any means
i just hold a brush and a bucket beside me
i lather my brush with colors of the unknown

it’s a choice made moments before
had I planned this, it’d go for millions.
but instead, it’s the aftermath of thought.
it is my conscious,

it is my will to live ,
it is the life I give,
it is my affection for others.
my comfort in others
The love I take the love I love the love I hate.

the love of everything
the love makes the water in my glass cup full
the color is often red
or some shade of it

although it is a spontaneous choice
my instinct knows the pattern
the color of blood,
it’s so hard to see.

yet here I am
putting the brush back in again
to let another drop fall
i hope the time, the color is not red.