She was an empty canvas
A clean white from head to toe
Not one tinge of color touched her skin
Till he decided to brush her so

With each moment
He painted her with colors

When they first met
He colored her with a forest green

When he held her hand
He colored her with sweet pastels

When he told her she's beautiful
He colored her with peaches

When he made love to her
He colored her with bulshes of pink

When he doubted her
He colored her with a navy blue

When he comforted her
He colored her with lilacs

When he spent less time with her
He colored her with gloom

When he found another
He colored her with red hues

When he let her go
He colored her with pale blues

When he left her

She was a masterpiece

I can't write a poem
Right now
It's killing me inside
I can't write you a song
Once more
Forgive me, it'll be alright

I can't sing a tune
Again
My voice is all but gone
I can't paint a picture
Today
My fingers are stiff and wrong

If I could see your face
Once more
I swear I'd strum a chord
I'd dance around and click my shoes
And slide across the floor

But now you're gone
And I'm still here
I guess they call it fate
I eat alone in this empty house
Surrounded by ghosts and crates

But if the stars align
And I keep shining
Maybe the world will give
Another glance, another dance
And a chance for me to live.

I can paint my story
all colors, shapes, and hues
with sunny yellows, bleeding reds,
and most royal of the blues
These shades won't need explanation
each one speaking on it's own
Just watch my story unfold
and see how much I've grown.

Monsters are depicted one dimensionally
Paintings illustrate the difficult decisions
This is the observer's farce

Blood on one's hands paint the canvas
Fingers comb through the valleys
Defining the geography of pain

Trauma sets in, and out goes precision
Distorting one image to reflect another

A change is needed in perspective's pallete
Hands soak to wash away the day view
The crimson stain nevers leaves,
Vibrant ideas left to wade in the murkiness

A flame in the ominous dusk
Smoke rising, exhaled from forest green
Cinders flicker in the silhouette of the Oak
The wise Arbor God of this sacred plane

Inhaltion of softer days invoke peace
Contrasting violently to this portrait
A work of art, painted in wild hues of red
Ingrained roots swallowed in a blaze

This pen
This ink
Leaves paper trails
Ready to ignite
Eyes aflame
Words written in combustion
Fadinginto the wind as ash
Intangible

there's a blank white canvas
because today i decided there needed to be
there's empty space
where i choose
which colors i want
and which ones i don't want
and i am the only one
who controls all of the brush strokes
i can paint you in,
or i can paint you out
i need to create
somewhere nice for myself
take me somewhere nice
where i have decided to be
take me to this place
where i chose my own happy ending

Lets try something new
An altered verse
Rhythm

Drink the chilling darkness
From the lifeless lips of death
Mourning skies paint roads with sorrow
Brushtrokes on a weathered canvas
Self mutilated through indecision

Moments frozen in eternities
Moments void of sound
Moments cannibalizing
Moments...

When traversing the wilderness
That fork in the way
Be it devils and demons
Be it cherubs and seraphs
Stagnation is death

his writing caught everyone’s attention
like an artist i once saw on the street in québec
he stood out amongst the crowd in montréal
i asked to take his picture
he obliged

this writer is also canadian
and paints masterpieces
with words

his colorful lines sometimes float on jagged edges
brushes of sticky sugar coating are exchanged
for starker strokes of reality
tinged with weathered wisdom
creating shadows in his work
accentuating the light

there’s not a write of his
that does not stir emotions
his words linger
rolling around in your head
bumping into each other
morphing into new connotations
his easel alive

you wonder if he did that on purpose?
could anyone have that kind of talent?
yes…..his brush continues flowing
even after the paint is dry

suddenly at midnight i awaken
and hear another morsel
a word, a phrase, a color
that only made itself known
in the dark of night

understanding he's a favorite
i imagined audibly hearing a collective sigh
when he contracted cancer
would he now leave his canvas dry?

no, this courageous artist
bravely took his palette
and continued painting
his words that us awaken
now e’vn more radiant
with tragedy astride

and ‘tho he talks of dying
i pray that he will stay
but should his spirit fly
we have seen a master show us
how to walk into the light

©2016janetaylorhardy

I am losing my best friend.
I am being ignored.
"There is nothing that can come between us, we're sisters for life."
There was no blood oath, there was no written promises
Just words
Weightless feathers floating through the air
I am trying to figure out the problem and it seems I cannot.
You've been speaking to me with your salon client voice and it cuts deeper than you know.
If I have lost you know that I love you and I never wanted our sisterhood to end.