I've been falling asleep later than I'd like to lately
And I can't seem to find the will to wake up
Anymore.
However, this morning I woke up
With the realization that I am tired
Rather than empty.
I have will, therefore I am alive;
And I intend to write you daily
Until I receive a letter in reply.
Paintbrush bristles for hair and dashes of
Red oil on canvas skin compose the
Exterior of my existence, but
The inside of me is a Monet.
I am the silence of the water lily pond,
And the blue of fair maiden complexion;
Dangling rough textured feet over
The edge of the Japanese footbridge,
Waiting in the crisp garden for an envelope
From you in reply.
The calluses on my hands are
Merely pale green chalk dust,
And the blisters
On my knees are only scrapes
From the pavement;
For making art with chalk is a tedious task
That requires risk.
The brown speckles upon
My pale green eyes are permanent
Remnants of the sleepy forest
Of my childhood.
The trees dance and whisper to me
That they are happy-
But if I do not return,
Will they be happy still?
To whom will they tell of their happiness?
I can't help but weep about my
Childhood friends, the trees.
For I miss them,
And I am not yet gone.
The wavelike sandiness of my
Paintbrush bristle hair
Connects me to my island cousins.
My deepest childhood memories
Are through my sorrowful bloodline
That yearns for the island of my youth
And the starry eyed cousins that
Come with her.
My feet are getting cold;
I should leave this painting.
Your eyelids are the doors
To the windows
Of your soul,
And I am the green reflecting upon
The glass panes.
Deceit and greed lingers in this Monet.
I find myself residing in the
Weeping willow,
And this pond is full of my tears.
Tears are such a delicate subject,
Yet they are tossed around so mercilessly.
I wonder why my tears don't like it
Inside of my head;
Perhaps they have had enough of this
Painting as well
And have decided to evaporate from
The lake and form storm clouds
In my eye sockets instead.
Whatever they decide to do,
I must not try to control them too much-
Taming myself is
Too murderous
A task.
I mistake the sniffling of my nose
For the ringing of a bell,
And I turn my head.
I thought that your letter
Might have arrived;
I will have to wait for another
Impression sunrise
To receive your reply.
