With each brush stroke I get a piece out of it,
Out of my body onto that damn canvas which is staring at me.
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.
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.