Ooze It Out

Dark bristles soak up the colors,

Slick and smooth as they glisten under the desk lamp.

I grasp the brush lightly so that I do not crush the delicate streams of water,

making their ways across the paper grooves like a stream in a canyon.

The nature of an artist’s paint brush can change in an instant,

The bristles bathe and rejuvenate with every dip.

I can morph hues into new views

so our eyes find havens in a concrete world.

I attempt to replicate my own perfect personal hell

A place where my suffering is attuned to my own individual existence,

where I sit and wallow;

my inner malicious jester known as the ego by the “learned” telling me I am alone and to get stoned.

scared out of my mind

the little girl inside me screams,

bleeding color from my hands

I pick up my brush and wait for it to ooze out of me,

Did you get a chance to see my pieces?

where her eyes are so wide you can see the water pools in her soul where she is slowly drowning away beneath her skull?

A girl with grey skin

White clammy hands tearing her apart from left and right and under and above and below as she sinks alone into the dark muddy ground?

It’s beautiful how the paints veil the ugliness underneath

reassuring me with free-flowing colors,

moving with souls of their own as they roll against the plains of the paper,

that I am worth painting.