Your undiluted colors flow so loosely
Leaving a messy trail wherever you go
I clean it up anyway
I'm mesmerized by its purity

My palette doesn't span so many shades
There's only so much colors I can even name
But yours... I didn't know that one brush can hold so much in it

The way you run it on my canvas
Making every page become so soaked
That I'm afraid it'll tear apart at any moment

Though because you don't let the colors dry into place
Everything drips right off
So the pieces you make never become permanent
And as you refuse to be diluted
Your palette empties so quickly

Leaving me to realize
That you'll never be a part of my portfolio
And you'll be art
That no one can ever own.
I'm broken by how easily
Your beautiful colors are washed away.

Write on me - I’m a blank page,
here to meet expectations.
Scribble, erase - copy and paste,
refine me with your impatience.

I’m a canvas for you to paint on
make of me what you will.
Make of me art - I’m ready to start,
paint me into a corner.

Showcase me in your gallery -
display what you've acquired.
I'm a mannequin for ******* -
arrange me with your desire.

Put me in your drama
I'm longing for the part
improvise, I'll close my eyes
the ****** will be art.

Some days I want to paint,
some times I want to be painted.

Some days I want to write,
some times I want to be written.

Some days I want to read,
some times I want to be read.

Some days I want to be a gardener,
some times I want to be the flower of that garden.

Some days I want to live,
some times I want to breathe in peace.

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.