They’ll end up calling me
“The one with all the paint samples?”
If they ask, they won’t
know my favorite color
because I won’t know
my favorite color either
And so my soul, too,
would remain unknown

my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines

A white page
The blankness staring mockingly at me
Mocking what I haven’t done
What I should’ve done
And what will never be done

A pencil
The tip barely brushing the surface
Yet staying paralyzed with no courage to scrape across
Knowing that the smudges will stay as scars
And forever mar the picture

Time flows forward
The page staying perfectly blank
No mistakes and no accidents
Perfection at its best
Surrounded with the pure whiteness of fear

His intricate fingers
shadowing your soft cheeks,
and picking apart rainbows
to mix with your eyes.

He studies your lips
and knows exactly what shade,
defining your dimples
and sprinkling on freckles.

Strokes of a dark brush
running from your face,
like a chocolate river
or a wild bear in the woods.

He captures the way
you stand with the moon,
longing to live with the stars
and deny the force that holds you.

He draws the veins on your wrist
like blue broken tree limbs,
with scars that resemble
the night sky.

Shuttering greys
leave with dark shadows,
a landscape full of black;
he portrays you as the sun.

understand me
see..
the curve of my cheekbones underskin
the relax of my shoulders
as I exhale and..
I don't ask for perfection.
but try..

She tried
to paint pain
on the canvas
but failed
cause..
sometimes the pain
must only
be felt
and not portrayed !!

my mind is a painter, thinking of colors in the form of stories and scenes
thinking about the brightest of city lights  
streets teeming with foreign language
people passing by with stories i'll never know
silent seas along the coastlines
mountains towering above us, old and wise
cabins in the forest with little firesides  
trains full of strangers to fall in love with
airports with people, greetings and goodbyes
postcard-perfect towns and friendly rivers
neighborhoods showered with pretty autumn leaves...

these are the stories painted in my head, the stories i'd love to paint with my own hands.
the places i'd love to see when i'm alone in my bedroom, the stories i want to see for myself.
and sometimes, i fear i'll never reach these works of art,
but with a brush and some paint, what's impossible?

"If at all I could paint, I would paint a picture..."
wondered a poet.
"If at all I could write, I would paint a picture..."
wondered a writer.
"If at all I could see, I would paint a picture..."
wondered a vision-less mind.