Toxic

 With each brush stroke I get a piece out of it,

Out of my body onto that damn canvas which is staring at me.

Blankly.

I always want to hide all that white.

With each fierce movement of my hand, I spill some of it, some of what has been kept for so long.

 Inside me.

Something that was never uttered into words.

But today, The paint has said it all.

With every brushstroke I release some of it.

Some of what had endured my heart for a while.

Some of what has controlled my mind.

With each edge of color added, A part of the story unfolds.

I don’t write poetry, But I feel.

I’m a translator.

After all I’m an artist.

Or I call myself one.

But an artist does not necessary have skills

After all, Art is feelings.

If you feel the world around you, I believe you’re an artist.

I think a painting knife would have made it much better. And a bit of turpentine too. Just too bad I couldn’t open up the bottle.

And most importantly, I couldn’t smell the toxic fumes of the colorless liquid that has always irritated my eyes.

And brought me back to life.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s