I see the world like a watercolor,

with blurred lines and edges.

All my thoughts seeping together,

memories bleeding into one.

From skyscrapers to childhood mistakes,

my sister’s moods and a sensation that aches,

nothing is without connotations.

 

Is there beauty in the bleeding?

In washing out the mundane?

While losing the power of precision,

to the light of day?

 

I wish I saw the world like an Impressionist painting,

simple, serene, and sure.

The world clear, free from connotations,

with no one washed out of the picture.

Not even me.

 

The Impressionists define their own reality,

with a the paintbrushes steady stroke.

The power of mistakes hidden under acrylic,

while the brilliance of oil remains.

Acrylic hard and oil soft,

and no room for tear tracks in either.

Somehow they are free in their wanderings.

 

I want to find the depth in this watercolor.

I want to contemplate the smoke outside the mist.

I want to clutch the granule of snow at the top of the highest mountain,

and light the fire in the dawn of dusk.

 

Maybe I’ll just paint this world, myself.