poem: the painting
written: 8:45 p.m. on Friday, Jan. 28, 2005

The Painting

Paintbrushes cut when their bristles toughen
turn lethal, become tiny blades;
i sweep it across my face, the mirror as my witness
and the pain doesn�t hurt.

At times, emptiness becomes that non-feeling
when the skin should react, but doesn�t
as if perpetually waiting, with bated breath,
for something fantastical to occur.

What does it expect? the stars to fall from the sky?
but who can believe in stars anymore
when the light that keeps them alive has been
cruelly devoured by humanity�s collective cynicism

that preys and paws at unsuspecting faces
clearly visible, in the dark, from a vast distance?
A mere blackhole remains now:
where an ethereal painting should be,

we�re left with streaks of blood.

15 January, 2005

before sunrise // before sunset


Previously:
- - Tuesday, Aug. 29, 2017
I'm moving. - Sunday, Jul. 11, 2010
In all honesty - Tuesday, Jul. 06, 2010
What I want for my birthday... - Sunday, Jul. 04, 2010
On Roger's behalf. - Friday, Jul. 02, 2010