A paintbrush makes lines
thin and long, connecting
it's almost like a song
a melody of art, as the paintbrush whisks away
people crowd around her, asking what it is
she ignores them, just carrying on with her art, making beautiful colors from her fingertips
nobody else can feel the way she does, when painting,
you feel in another world, a land of imagination
when it is finished, they are in shock, awe
as all the lines exploded into one amazing piece, she is now a work of art

So it's night
So it's dark
So it's quiet
So am I.

Bathed in electric shadow
I push blues and whites
In cream curdled from clouds
And shades of grey and green.

In politics and paint you're born
'Welcome to the world.
You're going to make someone very happy.'
Me.

So how many days
Can you spend in nights?
Let me know, faithless print
For eyes watch us, praying fondly.

I get confused, often
Spraxically distopic in a utopian person
We'll succeed together
We'll fly on splinted wings.

I can write love poems too, you know,
But I'm only here for the future
So let's wait, together
And work for something we still breath for.

I'm here for you being here for me
And I grow branches in the night's silence.
An ode to breathlessness
And the chill of flush for the quiet.

If I painted all my feelings
like I've wished to
The amount of canvas dripping blood
from my exploding heart would be staggering

Every word You speak is Love
paint my lips so I might leave
a golden print like You

But an apology flies
beyond yourself
to land on those places
you never knew you had hurt;
the thread that holds a scar together;
it speaks the language
only wounds and time know
and offers a sweet prose;
- Sorry.

An apology has wings: a white moth
of truth: it flies from the quicksand grave
of self-importance - beyond you - to land
on those barren places you never knew
you had drained of colour; it spins the thread
that winds a scar tight so that it does not grow
into the volcano
holding its shadow hostage
with the threat of eruption,
rather it must be the outline
of a mountain range of memory,
a reminder that beauty builds
its shape from the ugly things it conquered;
sorry - it offers a sweet prose,
speaks the gentle language
only wounds and time know.

Paint your words,
shed your tears
stroke the pattern
of love & loss.
Amazed
by the beauty of yours
Through glitters
& spark unified the
moment of hope.
Colors that symbolizing things.
Per black and white
diffuse the side
of art to craft.
Shine could make it last!!!

Piece by piece
the paint will peel.
Chiaroscuro,
tell me what’s real?
I touch, I cut
but I feel nothing.
In time, I’ll heal
but for now
I’m blushing.

© Matthew Harlovic

Paint, she said, as she removed her clothing and lay vulnerable before him. *Yes, he said and began using a small nimble paint brush. The feeling was relaxing as he delicately brushed her skin with vibrant colours. What will it be?, she asked. He answered, A story. But a story of what?, she demanded. He set down the soft bristles and told her he had finished. It was a short story he explained. She looked down to examine the art only to find herself fading away. She was alone and the artist was gone.

What a wonderful world you built for two,
A painter you are, and she- a hue
Guess I'll always be the girl; a palette only with shades of blue,
Drawn in my mind, *me and you.