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.

The crescent moon be my perch.
        A bough from which I extend my arm.
Careful fingers grasp my brush...
And with it I shall fill the void
with the universe.                

               The crescent moon be my hammock.
Upon which I lean fully into,
to seek restful recluse.                
Should my body start to buckle...
        From the heavy hopes of wistful eyes.

   The crescent moon be my anchor.
From which I draw                
my inspiration and strength.
                   She would cradle and sway me gentle...
      When wilting hearts spill unto me
the callous wiles of the world.    

The crescent moon be my well.        
A fount through which my palette        
remains full with an                                 
abundant array of silvery white.        

Just so...                                 
I could conjure for others,
       what their hearts so desire.

Just so...                      
I could grant them       
             needed solace and tranquillity.

Just so...                 
                          I could infinitely paint for them
the stars...