Two paintings sit display.
One holding what could be,
Living peace as me.
Yet fear scares I'm not,
And painting lies.
Other holds what I am,
Existing as this.
It's unbearable sight bleeds the eye,
To see existence eternally.
First painting holding hope,
Where I can wear all.
And dance like the woman,
Who dances in ink.
Painting in the pathways,
That I seek to paint,
Within skin I call mine,
With hair grown by me,
But the painting hard,
Walking the trial tough,
And still inside head,
Thoughts of doubting plague.
Painting second is sad,
Holding only dark.
Never altered myself,
In ever-changed world.
I never see true-self,
Just mirror of hate.
My self-hated parts here,
Yet path here easy.
But jumping into fire,
Only leads to burns.
And plunging into painting first,
Leads to burns of ink.
Yet holding hand of guiding,
That holds you in the heat,
Helps you make the choice.
And choice is all you make.
YOU ARE READING
Indentations
PoetryA book filled with my poems. Not all with be great, not all will make you cry. My hope is that all will make you think.
