An artist.
Is your heart worthy?
After the velcro is removed?
After the years are erased?
After the music stops,
after last call,
after your own voice has become misplaced.
Are you looking for those words again?
Are you still hungry for the definitions?
Is that fondest memory as colorful as the rough draft in
your heart?
The same one you painted with well intent that morning:
a mourning seemingly years ago...
Now many sense your weakness.
For what reasons?
You're the artist holding the picture you created.
When they see the colors they bleed along with them.
Maybe the painting was too much,
despite what the colors said.
Maybe the silly people just ran:
because the colors still bleed in their heads...
Paint a pretty world:
if its pretty to you, thats all that counts
The true artist in life
truly doesnt care.
The rest will choke on bitterness in flocks with shared
breath:
grasping the colors that paint their death...
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