In my solitude, I glimpsed a light I could not escape,  
Your laughter danced softly over my shoulder,  
Like the time I said I could never paint—  
And you, with a tender touch,
Held my hand and said,  
"I am the greatest masterpiece you'll ever create."  

I lost my way in your gaze;  
You told me it was I who brought you to life.  

White paint was out of reach, so the canvas stayed untamed.  
Red ran dry, so I bled deep to paint you unstained.  
Your hair brushed in black, a portrait unchained.  
I shaped your hands to mirror mine,  
So when I sought comfort,  
Yours would be the warmth I craved.

But now I search in desperate despair,  
To find the sketch of you in the back of my head.
It was all in my mind—engraved.  
So when I rot and fade away,  
You will remain beyond decay.

To love is to paint
delicately dragging your brush across a canvas
being deliberate with every flick of your wrist
every stroke gentle and planned
and when you make a mistake, you don't throw away the whole canvas
no, you pick up your brush and paint a happier picture over it

I've been afraid to paint for some time now.
I always jump into a painting with a happy picture in mind
but my end result is always the same
groggy. messy. not good enough.
maybe I'm just not destined to be a painter

The town is new,
its buildings washed in grey.
The streets are clean,
it's peaceful here—
but its too quiet.

Everything here is bleak,
so colorless, drained of thought.
The people stay inside,
I can't hear them smiling,
can't see them laughing.

Today, the streets are busy,
its a funeral march of faces
they move in one direction,
headed to the same place,
but they don't go together.

They're all going somewhere.
to do something unimportant.

They built another building,
big and grey, empty of laughter.
People act out scenes that once felt funny,
but they act only for the camera,
they only laugh for the camera.

No one looks up at the sky.
there's nothing there anymore—
just thin sheets of grey.
No gold, no silver,
even when the sun sinks.

I still see gold and silver,
hidden somewhere behind the clouds.
but this town stays grey.

I reach for my brush,
longing to paint something bright.
But each stroke fades—
the colors turn to ash,
grey bleeding into my hands.

I hate this town.

My face like a canvas
And I am the artist
I grab my paintbrush
Dipping it in the paint on my pallet
I bring the bristles up to my lips
And I begin my masterpiece
Painting on a beautiful smile
For all to see
But no matter how realistic my art looks
The smile will always be a painting

Would it be wrong
to attempt painting the blank canvas
that's been sitting in my attic
for longer than I've had it?

To witness the sky paint itself
shades you've never seen;
blooming with thorns of yearning
as your gaze turns away?

Or to be drowned
by the soft reflection
of worldly glee,
as the moon begins to fall?

Oh, tell me --

Is it really wrong
to pour your heart out,
when you've never had anything
to pour at all?

i am drowning.

the work is becoming me.

i am not living
moment to moment
but task by task. my phone is
a long list of numbers and names,
and they all need me now,
now, now,
and yesterday and tomorrow,
but i rank them,
because life is a long
list of ranking and doing,
but the ranking is a chore
already, and i get tired,
my feet sink up to
the **** of my ankle,
and i'm no further ahead
than i was before,
the same spot, just
a few inches lower,
a few pounds heavier.

i am in no condition
to write.
so i smoke, i
let the spirit run
all through me,
and through him,
i find the second
mask of mine that
loves to write letters.

i am drowning
in letters.

the list swells,
shifts, squirms
in my hand.
every screen begs
me to write to it.
and everyone's got
a different medium,
language, favor,
passion and preference.

i am thanking and apologizing.
i am scheduling and dismissing.
i am losing steam trying to
wear all these hats; i
am sinking, i
am sinking, i am
sinking, i am sinking,
i am fifteen people at
once, all singing and
stepping on themselves,
i am so noisy, and grateful.
i am so sickeningly small.

i am drowning.
i am grateful. i
am swelling; i am
building an image;
i am becoming. it
is so uncomfortable.

it is night when i finally
sit to paint. these are the
things that sell and yet i
feel so much like a glass
jar already stuffed full
of change. nothing to
show for it yet though.
so i put the
ink in a big
circle on the
canvas and i
crawl inside it
and it is warm
and soft and
unforgiving
and it doesn't
expect a thing
from me but
color.

Grief's canvas stretches wide and bare
A blank slate waiting, with no one to share
The brushstrokes of memories, once vibrant and bright
Now muted and faded, in the dark of night

The paint of pain, a deepening hue
A color that clings, to all I once knew
The strokes of sorrow, bold and free
A portrait of longing, for what used to be

The process of healing, a slow reveal
A layering of emotions, a complex feel
The colors of love, still shining through
A radiant glow, in all I once knew

The subject of my heart, a beloved face
A masterpiece of memories, in a sacred space
Though faded and worn, the love remains
A portrait of devotion, through joy and pains

The final brushstroke, a gentle touch
A whisper of acceptance, a heart that's too much
The portrait complete, a story told
A testament to love, that never grows old

In this masterpiece of grief and love
I find solace, sent from above
A reminder of what was, and what will be
A portrait of devotion, for all eternity.

If I could,
I would paint a picture of you across the sky—
A canvas of clouds for the world to see.
The rainbow, my palette, dipped in hues of my heart,
To illustrate the boundless depths
Of how much I love you.

A picture might capture a million words,
Yet a million words falls short—
They can’t hold the vastness of my love,
A love that spills beyond the edges of language.

I try to voice the feelings I harbour,
To let you glimpse the ocean within me,
But every time, my voice falters,
Drowning in the waves of emotion
That crash and recede, leaving me silent,
A debtor at the banks of words,
Struggling to pay off what cannot be expressed.

But if you could see the sky I paint for you,
You’d know, without a word spoken—
That my love for you is as infinite as the heavens,
And as enduring as the light that breaks through the storm.

Postmodernists like Rohrschach blots
But painters prefer polka dots,  
But shaking paint just right
So dots stay round and tight
Is like tying needles in knots.