In my dream you were a savior,
who conquered the world with words
and sought a painters sky
that didn't belong to envious stars.

In my dream you were the light,
who checked both shoes before stepping in
and smiled fearlessly
at the monsters who dared to fall within.

In my dream you were a musician,
who gave bats gypsy bells
that lulled the moon asleep
and birds sonnets to
keep the sun awake.

In my dream you were the ocean,
whose waves roared in an hourglass
and tilted gems on
melted sheets of sand.

In my dream you were the wind,
who curled itself around me
and whispered stories
beyond the company of grass.

In my dream this was you
who used to check both shoes
(before stepping in).

A poem,
is brushed upon canvas-like page,
as witter dips into paint-can of creative mind.

Colorful phases get mixed for
perfect hue of expression,
to match their feelings.

Brush strokes, get dabbled
across fields of white
until the perfect vision is accomplished.

And then...after working their craft
born is a masterpiece
like that of Michael Angelo and Rembrandt.

Blessings to the poet, who is in a class of their own.

I believed you were a painter. Your hands, your arms – they were meant to create art. They were meant to create beautiful masterpieces. I believe I am the empty canvas and you stroke me with harsh resentment. Now, I’m colourful. Are you happy now, painter? Are you happy that red paint trickled down the canvas, where you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, the canvas have feelings too? Are you happy that traces of violet paint smeared all throughout the once white and pure canvas?  Are you done with your masterpiece? Or is your masterpiece still not finished?

As I roam this gallery of portraits
I see beautiful ones, but quite a few
A myriad happy and gloomy faces
And by serendipity, I find you.

Chaos of colors, your broken pieces
What could have ruined this exquisite art?
I try to save you from your grave distress
With the only last piece of my broken heart.

But woe to me as it has ever been
I failed to paint your most beautiful smile
My colors failed me, I stand crestfallen
You're another piece of artistic style

Oh! My broken heart breaks even further
As I see you being painted by him
He's an expressionist; well-defined painter
Painting you love as I have never seen.

I'm doomed; consumed by my melancholy
I'm a pathetic painter-turned-poet
Can somebody, anybody save me?
Slowly, I become a broken portrait.

Oh
Dear
Painter
Why have
You forsaken
Me altogether,
Why no tears?
In spite of all the grief,
In spite of all the sadness,
In spite of all the darkness,
In your heart forsaken me.