My heart beats with paint.
The drum that beats my life is full of it,
And I want nothing but to let it free.
I have thrown it at a canvass, but it is not sticky.
I have hummed it from my throat, but it is not a melody.
I have within me the paint of all who have tried to show it.
Writhing and coiling trying desperately to be seen,
But I have not the means to show it.
Only you who realize your heart is made for paint may bring it to this world,
So one day,
when I and my world are gone,
And another must take my place,
Find a way to free my paint,
For it must find it's place.
