canvas and brushes on the floor,
trying to paint the promises you swore
but i can't seem to find the perfect colors.
trying to blend everything for hours.

different shades on a ***** palette.
different hues on a warm jacket.
nothing seems to fit right
but i still tried covering it with white.

hoping it will be beautiful again,
i sighed and drink my champagne.
i'm still hoping though the result's quite obvious.
stared at other's pieces and now i'm envious.

the life i've been trying to live
was all a lie, i believe
i gave all i could give
but in the end, i'm the one who grieved.

I walk in beauty
As if Venus has bestowed her wings on my back.
Her frolicked hair in oil paint
perhaps I am her redemption?
To seek both answer and truth
In an age without stone cut statues?

But I do not resemble the sliced abdomen of statues
and I am not gilded in beauty
nor do I tell the perfect truth.
I tend to look back,
craving redemption
illustrated in paint

My fingers tremble in paint
frozen at the canvas like a statue.
There is no point in a redemption
when I cannot see beauty.
So I learn that I will not be back
until I have learnt the truth.

And when I have learnt this truth,
so stark as oil paint,
I must make the decision to come back.
Of course I will change, for I am not a statue,
but I will be shrouded in my own beauty
for Venus will get her redemption.

I yearn for the girl I used to be.

The girl who used to care about her studies.
The girl who used to write poetry.
The girl who used to sing confidently.
The girl who used to paint vividly.
The girl who used to love freely.
The girl who used to care deeply.

I do not care about my studies (as much).
I do not write poetry (as much).
I do not sing confidently (as much).
I do not paint vividly (as much).
I do not love freely (as much).
I do not care deeply (as much).

The intensity has passed on,
to younger generations,
to newer beings,
to fresh souls,
with more to live for,
with more to care for,
and with more to prepare for,
than I.

For I am old,
and I will continue to do the things I love,
but not with the passion,
but not with the love,
but not with the care,
but not with the confidence,
but not with the freedom,
that I once had.

f.m.s.

To peel off your soft skin, mold it
into armor, let the blood gush out
until it fills your cup, and you gulp it in
as medicine; to pluck out your silenced
tongue, watch it slither across blank
pages, as it paints them scarlet-sweet
like your heart; to **** the trauma, bury it
under words, but make it immortal
on the same paper.