Your kisses are like colors
Each more vibrant than the next

**** these tiny butterflies,
that rest in my stomach,
and expand in my chest...

like little paper knives,
i choke.  

and
ill block my lungs one day,
and ***** them up,
coughing out each wing
and eyeball and
tooth
.
.
.

even if theyve got my tongue twisted,
and my brain scattered,

like paint,
it is venom to my
squeezing, breathing heart
and
one day
ill rip out my
intestines
just to see them
gone.

With my pen I try to slay the demons
I am determined to chase them from my eden
With the inky darkness I will paint my picture
I will paint them with such stricture
My words will flow
And everyone I'll show
They will no longer be allowed to reside
Hidden deep inside
With the darkness of my ink
I will bring them to the brink
With the black flow, I'll shine the light
On their hideous form, no longer hiding in the night

The wall that seperates our home
Was as thick as the callouses on my fingers,
But I could hear every brush stroke
That he made on his canvas.

With every flick of his wrist,
a new image begins to build.
With every breathe that he took,
breaths of love and passion.

I can see in high quality definition
The looks on the spectator's faces,
As they admire your colors
On the wall beside the colors you once admired.

The paint brush runs across your bare skin
You watch me paint with all different colors - blues, blacks, greens, yellows, reds - vibrant, yet calm

Your eyes widen as the canvas on your back blossoms
Blossoms with flowers and faces and color

As the paint brush runs across your delicate skin, we lay entangled in the linen sheets.

We lay intertwined in all the vivacious colors
You told me to paint over all the scars on your skin, to create something beautiful from the broken pieces

So I painted a beautiful canvas - I created *art

If I was a painter, you know what I'd do?
I'd paint what I feel every time I'm with you.

In beautiful shades of grey and blue
Would be the scenes that are lacking you.

paint a vivid picture from the ashes of ancestry, so we can view the memories of forgotten dreams

Our fingers brushed in the gallery opening
not so long ago,
we were in a room full of art,
which only made me crave you more.

It reminded me of your hands,
finger-painting like a child using watercolors
onto my blank canvased soul filling in
every part of me that was missing colors.

Now, everything is in black and white.
When our fingers lightly brushed again,
I felt the flood of rainbows and stars rush back to me
before disappearing behind me, following you away.

the sky was stained purple and green- ghastly hues-
leaving me with a very unclean feeling
unfurling on my palms.
I wanted to wash it away-
the colors were becoming one now
(the kind of mysterious brown mothers pulled their children from peering at on mown lawns)-
and have a canvas pure as the first hour snow falls over weary towns.

it was harder than I thought it would be.
it involved scrubbing away the lights when aiming for the darks;
too much muddled together to pull apart the best, beautiful parts,
too much of a mess I should’ve noticed earlier when
I picked up my paintbrush and decided to spread my existence
out and out and out-
too much to pull back now, anyways.
too much but I don’t regret
anything
for I pulled out my soul
and spun my paintbrush around in it collecting
deep pigmented blood stains and tear drops and soft hugs.

only then did I begin to understand
my twisted self- when
brush touched world.

I will never be able to look at red paint the same way after that night