Do you wanna hang out?

We can fingerpaint now.

'Cuz I know that you love the stuff

that reminds you of being young.


Witnessing the sunset (the new day will await us)

We can use our thumbprints (all over the plain walls)

And we can bend our knuckles (paired up to shape hearts)

We won't always be amateurs (we can fingerpaint now)


We're never growing older, there's nothing anyone can do.

Your hand may be in mine, your soul deep in mine too.

Do you wanna hang out?  We can fingerpaint now.

'Cuz I know you love the things that make you feel young again.

i wish i could coat my hand in paint
and leave the print of it on every wall
in London.

then there wouldn't be a place you could go
or a wall you could lean on
without

holding
my
hand.

My gut reaction remains the same
shade of grey I remember finger painting yesterday.
The smears cloak my fingerprints
like manuscripts of the negative.
Sharp enough to break through the holiest of sentiments.
It's night two in the dark alone when I call on the ghosts.
Exercise the demons so I may leave the couch at once and turn the lamp on.
Warm bodies approach- blurred yet familiar- radiating only eyes.
Dull and full of assumptions.
I can't respond.
I reach out and watch as effort manifests as motionless limbs again.
Now, my eyes neither open nor closed, identify nothing.
My hands, palms dripping a simple shade of gloom I've come to embrace, greet my brow.
Grey sweat covers this grey reflection and these paintbrush arms I own just want to get up and live.
In color again.

My gut reaction remains the same
shade of grey I remember finger painting yesterday.
The smears cloak my fingerprints
like manuscripts of the negative.
Sharp enough to break through the holiest of sentiments.
It's night two in the dark alone when I call on the ghosts.
Exercise the demons so I may leave the couch at once and turn the lamp on.
Warm bodies approach- blurred yet familiar- radiating only eyes.
Dull and full of assumptions.
I can't respond.
I reach out and watch as effort manifests as motionless limbs again.
Now, my eyes neither open nor closed, identify nothing.
My hands, palms dripping a simple shade of gloom I've come to embrace, greet my brow.
Grey sweat covers this grey reflection and these paintbrush arms I own just want to get up and live.
In color again.

You have always dreamed of aviation,
cellophane wings glued to your heartstrings--
my marionette lover of hopes hanging high
enough to abolish the air from heavy lungs.

I watch your cavern chest rise but never fall,
tsunami tides engraved permanently airborne,
intertwining hands with time as suspension
silences destruction.

Time does not exist here--only periwinkle
veins illuminated by morning light,
wispy eyelashes beginning their ascension.

You are all light, and altitude, and grace.

I am grounded, tethered to comfort, but
the curvature of your spine breathes sanctuary.
Your shoulders-- broad, significant--
as if to fingerpaint the alpines you will ascend
once the wrath of gravity is conquered.

When your parachute soul finally gathers
enough strength to pilot the destined flight,
I hope you remember to save
a window seat for my heart.

I could never paint with a steady hand,
creating a piece bright enough to light a dark city was like tying shoes without laces
I briefly remember my first grade year.
My heart, beating blood red as roses, told me to bloom as far as the sky could reach.
In art class, I’d scribble some old beaten down crayons across printer paper
Hoping to create sunshine from nothing but sticks of wax

It felt like only yesterday my friends and I didn’t know
our fingers from our thumbs, or our neighbors from our critics.
We were too oblivious to understand that it was impossible to perform
a concert to a crowd facing backwards.
Too frozen in a field full of snow,
to realize that our creativity would soon be abolished by the opinions of society.

Society, a word I didn’t hear until around sixth grade
I quit drawing flowers because the heart that once told me to bloom
warned me that my petals would soon be picked apart by the people standing around me.
Crayola boxes, once filled with spirit and embodiment, somehow lost their color.
Playing with bubbles in the backyard until the sunset had turned into endless nights
In the kitchen studying textbooks until my mind could no longer function
My luminous peace of mind now dulled by what they call “reality”

Yesterday, I threw all of my pennies in a wishing well.
My knees now bruised from entreating the world to hold their prisms up to the sun,
hoping they’d discover the hidden hues that Imagination may transfuse,
The philosophy, of one’s youth.

Rusting in the shade of sycamore trees, fields of
puzzlegrass
Naked in pools of water, naked on the rocks in
the sun
Sweat melting down into puddles of ice, blown back
& forth
Erasing lines on the page, crumpling up fingerpaint
pictures
Your beautiful handwriting on my back, ink under our
fingernails
Quiet little lines in my notepad, saved for you
alone
Reflections of sleepless nights with your charms
on the nightstand
Left carelessly in the morning, lovingly left
behind
I read those pages, & with a sigh, rip them to
pieces

she hung onto every syllable to float on his wintery breath
as he exhaled raspy whispers into the nape of her neck
and she felt a fluctuating heat as he stole the glimmer of hope from her eyes and dimmed it to instead shine 'emergency exit'
when she realised his wandering touch was not gently caressing but infact longing to fingerpaint with her emotions
but the patterns he painted so fondly soon turned to a collection of harsh bruises
and her tears weren't enough to extinguish his smothering flame
and her pleas weren't enough to break through the chains she felt crushing her in his embrace

he left her broken like the soft spoken promises he crafted
her eyes dull and empty like the indentations of his fingernails which still lingered on her skin

So unexpected, guide me through your thought,
As a scheme, so clean, has me under your charm
Faceless beauty, her spirit leaves me caught,
I'll dance along, darling, arm within arm

Antique photos create vivid discourse,
Formatted light brings man closer to muse,
Letting robots paint, through unexplained force,
Gifts of design, our sight shall not abuse

To select one tint, I'd say Aurora,
Like those hair colours painted emerald,
mixed shades of turquoise, the cosmos' flora.
Stumbled upon, speaks an angels herald

Now, I pose, toward your curious mind
What songs, or prose, keep stresses left behind?

Appeared a riddle,
Buried treasure teasing clues,
Reveal your secrets

--

Count the stars while counting your steps, my girl,
Skipping careless upon the edge of the world,
If you were to slip, in my arms you would curl,
or lift me up to sit and watch the waves whirl

Diving with diction, planned like mystery fiction,
Gossip through senses, our voices breed intrigue,
To some, this constriction, would be cause for friction
But we're something special, within our own league

Vast skies painted in pastels mesmerize,
Warm sphere's embrace souls, leaving nothing to guess,
Astonished, you leave me, how we synchronize,
an unwonted psyche I dream to undress

Mix Vagabond, Stadium Love, Get Jiggy,
stirred with Colt 45, Spektor, and Kanye,
One part, don't worry, Two parts, be happy,
Pour upon the strawberry swings of coldplay.

Such careful words, the tension's in this game,
Would we break it, if I were to ask your name?

Queen, rule just and pure,
spark mischief behind barred doors,
Toy soldiers, march forth
--

Village folk decried such madness, those two,
Vaulting barb wire fences, and shabby rusted Fords
Vexing stray hippos, mired in the peacock's blue
Vanishing across great plains, slick tundra, broad fjords

Crooked cobblestones carve patience and plight
Crazed concrete jungles echo no amnesty
Captive Pigeons left captivated by flight
Cheer on escapees who soar past reality

Illusions of reflections spur pleasure,
Incite subtle coaxing, come over for a bite,
Impressed as may be, we care not spoil treasure
Instead conspiring deeper, until it's...just right

Blood ne'er shed freely,
Exhaust all human power,
Claim your Victory.
--

Without a doubt, you've penned one of your greats,
The way your words flow, how it illustrates,
Fingers left speechless, your story asphyxiates,
and to think, this is only one of your unimaginable traits,

So I'll be the first to spoil the rhyme,
I'm sure you'll learn to forgive me in time,
But with an inbox cluttered with junk and grime,
it's fast-coming apparent I'm chatting with a dime,

Curious souls are we, so let's fill up the canvas
Fingerpaint and oils; no drafting, sort-of planless,
Maybe we could do with the other one's madness,
so let me propose an idea; it shouldn't leave you anxious,

Lets find an evening where your heart may be free,
So that we may join together for a lovely cuppa' tea.

Breaking news just in!
Winter echos behind us,
Spring forward once more.

everyone has a story and mine is painted
the color of the oceans on the bermuda coastline.
it’s so beautiful/sad/broken/much like art.
my skin sometimes shimmers like that lake by your
house in florida, the lake that knows how to dance
in the moonlight like we did that night when you
you put an arm over my shoulders and we swayed
like lovers to a song others have kissed so passionately to.
it’s funny. i saw you and i saw your story.
i saw it painted in sunsets,
and sun showers,
and tears in the rain.
you had a story with the colors of fresh bruises, and it intermingled with mine.
what if i let my soul spill out onto a canvas again?
would we be able to pretend
like this love never had to end
and could we blend our colors together
like the watercolor paints we’re made of
and transcend
above the pain and
the darkness
that envelops us
and our story?
what does it mean to have a story?
i wonder this, as i instinctively tell ours
and hope that i left some fingerpaint
on your heart.
i hope
you can set me apart from anyone you have ever loved.
i still love
you in color although my world's gone grey
even though i have to keep reminding myself that
your voice sounds like a violet galaxy
because it’s got the kind of stars i may never get to see
again.
once again i am left to watch a lover on the sidelines
and it’s like my
heart is forever breaking in the night time
and the daytime.
all the blasted time.
i’m crying on my knees
praying to a god i never used to believe
in but only a higher power could cause this bleeding
of love that i was seeking.
and now i understand the meaning in
be careful what you wish for.
and i am unsure
of what i miss more.
the purple streak in your hair,
the look in your eyes,
the embraces,
the kisses,
the glow in the dark,
the float above the ground,
the couldn’t care less,
the sounds,
of your voice,
your laugh,
your heartbeat,
the way you’d effect my heartbeat…
i had stars in my eyes, babe,
but the stars bleed
and i hardly see
anything but what we
used to be.
we used to be everything in every galaxy
and me?
i used to be,
i used to be,
i used to be free.
can’t you see it’s killing
me, turning my colors grey?
can’t you just
wouldn’t you just
please just
stay.
stay a moment while i find the right words to paint.
the right words to say.
words the color of love/fear/the bay/promise.
because i love you like a promise
soft, pale blue, and the skyline,
ever present, never evanescent and true.
i want to continue this story,
because we were so lovely
and we had so much more
in store.

I hate pottering around inside my mind
With no reason or rhyme, like I'm retired-
Poking through cobwebbed corners,
Pulling at age-old tablecloths, considering
A garden party for me and my little lost smile
There in the half-wild,
With the sun like messy oil I'll have to wash
Out of my hair and clothing when I'm done.

I hate playing docile card games alone,
Laying out plans like pictures I'll never colour in-
My doughy brain pokes stimulus off the shelf  
And traps itself in kindergarten daydreams;
I fingerpaint endlessly,
Defining the world through crayon senses,
Crushing, mushing cookies and shaking
Clumsy maraca beats.

If only I could lie down in soft rustic flesh
Snatching handfuls of it to conceal my skin
Finally, finally filling myself in
Buried alive for good
And be expelled, again, into blazing harshness
Choking on the earth that forms my body
Crying, crying for hope and fresh presence
Coming to life for good.

After so many words, what
is there left for me to say to you?
What have you not heard out
of my mouth?

Shall I speak of you, then?
Shall I sing your praises to all who come?
What can be said that could paint you
as you appear before my eyes?

Do I say to them, when I was a stone she
was what taught me to relearn
my flesh and feel, when I
was glass shards shattered she taught me
to fingerpaint with the blood welling
up on my hands where I tried to put
myself back together and savor
the beauty of its red, when I am
a bird I would cut off my wings
for the chance to sing to her where
she is perched atop the poplar?

Do I tell the tale of how I thought to take
the stones you carry with you on
your back and gently lift them, one
by one, how I tried to convince you to leave
the pieces of your burden behind
where I had laid them down
by your feet, how when you would
not be persuaded I offered
to take them up myself and how you
refused me?

Do I describe the girl made of paradox, she
who carries the heaviest load with the
lightest tread, and among
her many laughters, one is the truest
expression of joy I have ever known and
it is the one she spills from her
lungs as a smokescreen, and her presence
overflows from the room as she tries
to reel the rivulets back in?

All this I would say to them.
All this you already know.

But to you I would say, you are not
a creature of the light, nor
are you one of the dark, not of
the shadows nor the twilight nor the
morning. You live at the shadow's edge, where
it is gray with light half-turned, neither
of it nor not, and make of it
something all your own.