Soft bristles, an extension of my fingertips. Bright colors splatter over a bare canvas. My mind finally running free. No words are needed here. Feelings I cannot voice start to blend into one. I search for perfection in the shapes in which I’ve created. But what is perfection when it comes to a feeling? Can a feeling ever be perfect? Perhaps not. And if that’s so why should I tear myself apart for what I create not being perfect, when the root of the creation is not perfect to begin with? To come to terms with such a realization is a feat I may never overcome. But still, I hold my brush with the expectation of such. To smear myself upon gesso with only my judgment to bear.

I don’t want to feel anymore. This pain has wrapped itself around my heart. Its roots expanding through my whole body. Spreading up my spine and into my brain. Taking over my senses. Polluting my thoughts. My body aches, my heart breaks, and my mind thinks. Too much does my mind think. It thinks and thinks until all I can think to do is to rip myself apart. To expose my veins, the roots that lead to my pain. To my heart that still manages to beat. To my brain that is the cause of it all. For if I didn’t think, I wouldn’t feel at all.

I am trapped behind concrete walls and steel bars. The air burns my lungs with car exhaust and cement. Shades of gray cloud my vision and light dulls the dark. Where is the soft grass and the tall trees? The smooth earthy air that embraces my lungs with every deep breath? The blue's and green's and a night sky freckled with stars? For they were home, and this is not.