Bright scarlet drips
from the bristles
of my paintbrush,
I'm sitting in front of my easel.
Music trickles from my radio,
but I'm not listening.
I've retreated to a place
deep within myself.
I'm burrowing deep,
perusing the pages of my thoughts,
discovering my true emotions.
Magically, they rush unto the canvas,
the empty white square of possibilites,
that sits before me.
It won't stay white for long.
If I was perfect, it'd be that way,
free of blemish and unscarred by pain,
and I'd hang it on my wall,
a masterpiece of which I could be proud.
But I'm imperfect, so on go the colors.
The silhouette of a heart,
criss-crossed with healing scars,
is the image which materializes.
I continue.
Slashes of black and blue,
symbols of my bruised spirit,
dash out of my brush.
Add a light wash of grey,
the color of my sadness,
and it's almost finished.
But not quite.
In the corner I paint the sun,
a molten orb glowing furiously.
It casts light onto the heart,
telling it that a brighter day will come,
pleading for it to hold on, to just hold on
until the clouds drift away.
I sign the painting and wait for it to dry,
waiting for the sun to come
and chase away the clouds.
