I can paint with all the colors of the wind
Even as they turn against and break me from within
Nevertheless I pick up the paint brush and make pretty pictures that
Everyone can smile with
As a tormented artist
My heart is cut with the jagged glass from my own art
I tried to smile and cover up the rainbow of tears
That leads to my empty gold pot
My worldly treasure
That I can only hold as sand grains
Vainly trying to keep it together
As they weather my hands
And as these nubs become sandpaper
I try to mold my work
But end up creating little pieces of glass
That only continuously prick my fingers.
A grin forms on the paper that is my face
And I marvel in the mirror
At the pretty picture I created
But truth slaps me in the face
Yet helps remind me to remember my place
They say that God is the head of all creation
HE is the artist
And I am not to try to take his place.
Even as the waterfalls rush from the painting
No cleaner do I emerge
Weighed down with the eternal question
To give in or push out
I let the emotions of life fester internally
And wait for the day I break
Leaving the world to wonder
What could I have done to save the pretty flower from destruction?
Truth be told, I scream inside reaching for all the hands I rejected
With a petite little smile
Asking them what’s been bugging them for awhile
As the bugs devour what’s left of my will power
Wondering if telling someone would be
Selfish or selfless
Doesn’t matter anyway
All the people hear are complaints
But all I hear are the stains that mar my white garment
It’s all the same.
I want to be heard
I want to be helped
But no pretty picture needs to heard
As the pretty pretty prom queen.
But finally I scream out loud but never too proudly
My glass is broken in
Too… many pieces and all the colors they spew
And they run out of order
All the chaos I feel comes to an end
I reach to a friend and glance in their eyes.
Look at all the pretty colors… look at the pretty painting.