I use my tears to paint watercolor pictures of us.

You showed
me your true colors
so I used you  
as pigment on an
already messy canvas,
because it’s my turn
to do the manipulating.

I wish my hands
were big enough
to sculpt mountains.

My own masterpiece
cannot hurt me.
I’m no longer
afraid of you.
I can no longer miss you
or be hurt by you.

Maybe you should
have used me
more beautifully.
But it’s okay
because I needed
the material.

The scritching and scratching of bristles on canvas,
The whispering of dancing paint strokes upon it,
Meeting and mingling with each other
And attempting to reflect
the ethereal dreams drifting deep
Within the misty maze of my mind.

I was only given so much to go around, but it must show
Because all the waitress in all the towns, act as if they already know
Always flashing that concerned, half-turned smile
When they call me "Darling" and whisper, "Will you be stayin' a while?"

I'm not sure if it's out of habit or respect?
But I always do it, do what manners expect
Look up with what part of me is left
Smile back but I think of you instead

When I'm with my family
And they shower me with love
I can't help and wonder, "How do they all do it?
Care so much for everyone..."

Do they only give out smaller bits?
A fraction of the painting
So when they all come together
All the pieces seem to fit, to form something amazing

Its almost impossible replicate
Each person's own vision and version of love.
Breaking it like all the rest is one thing that I refuse
So instead I give it all away, every last bit and piece to you.

I swing my sword
At the monster inside me.
But the blade has been blunted,
It's dull and cannot ****.
What is a warrior without her sword?
Joan of Arc without her horse?

Stripped of my valor,
In the middle of war.
I do not have the means to fight anymore.
Left bare to the sun.
Where arrows can pierce
And daggers can jab.

Trying to create an image,
Which seemed so vivid before.
All my paint is dull
And all my canvas broken.
What is an artist without his brush?
Van Gogh without his hands?

The pain he must feel
When losing his only muse.
He lives through art,
So dies if he cannot paint.
I live through words,
I die if I cannot write.

Now god you've taken my legs.
How do I live,
When I cannot stand.
I fear I've lost my only light.
I fear I'm out of muse.
With nothing more to say.

Like a warrior without her sword.
Van Gogh without his hands.
My words are my legs,
And I cannot stand.

i tried to write a poem
a poem just for You
but when i sought to find the words
like hummingbirds, they flew!

i tried to bake some cookies
a dozen, just for You
but before they hit the oven
we'd shared the yummy goo

i tried to paint a picture
a picture just for You
but the colors all ran out of line
like sunlight through the dew

i tried to plant a garden
wildflowers, just for You
but when i'd tilled and sown the soil
too tall for me they grew!

i tried to find a treasure
a treasure just for You
but when i looked inside the chest
i found a gift from You

i tried to tell a story
a mystery, just for You
but when i lost the villain's trail
'twas You who found the clue

i tried to catch some fireflies
green starlight, just for You
but you smiled, and set the lightning free
when i brought my lamp to You

i tried to find the perfect shell
a conch shell, just for You
but all i found were little stars
who tickled like You do!

i tried to find an angel
an angel just for You
but when i told her who You were
she said "you can't have two"

i tried to catch a falling star
a wish, made just for You
but when i did, You said "My dear,
all I've wished for is in you…"

i tried to write a poem
a poem just for You
this time i found all the words
to tell the world of You