this paint drips from my fingertips
like the last drop of poison from a bottle
hitting the floor and splattering
maybe just like me
this art is my heart
and that is what most do not understand
for these birds are the hopes that flew away
these clouds are the people that led to dismay
those red footprints are not another's blood
but my own.
the sky is not blue but black
because if the world i live in does not feel colorful
why should i paint it as such?
and the sharks are in the water
circling me as if there's an inside joke
between the beasts
that i am not aware of
the words biting at my skin
leaving little pecks into my skin
leaving these spots and dots all over my skin
what am i describing?
sticks and stones may break my bones
but words will do much more
and you paint and you paint
to your heart's galore
spilling out things you didn't know were there
you paint and you paint
and in the time you escape
straight into that darkened mind of yours
that deep mind of yours
that mind you have that mimics the ocean
so you paint the ocean and you paint the sharks
you paint the birds and you paint the clouds
you paint the red footprints and you paint the sky
and finally you take a step back
and look at your life and look at yourself
and you look at that painting
that painting
that painting
your mind turned physical
turned inside out
everything is here
everything is there
yet everyone is still blind
yet no one can understand
i don't understand
you're finished
and you've got red and blue and grey and black
streaks of paint in your hair
there's rainbow fingerprints on your clothes
there's the remnants of your heart
right there
painted onto your body
painted onto that canvas
painted
painted
painted into prettiness
into something much kinder than it is;
something warmer
something bright
something
something whole.
you look closer and you see that those are not just the strokes of a brush
but letters
letters and phrases
sentences and insults—
i'm sorry
i'm getting off track again
and paint splatters rid the floors and walls
and the colors drip from the canvas
the artist is gone
the memories left behind
the brush stuck in place
the paints left there without lids
left to slowly dry out
and crumble away
forgotten and alone
no one to bring their colors to life
no one left to paint.
no one will ever pick up that brush again
no one will ever use those paints again
the canvases will gather dust
and cobwebs will find their home
dust bunnies will spring and bounce and jump around
but none of these things will ever be touched again
wasted
in need of a purpose
because like they say,
life imitates art
