Painters and Poets

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I could say I write because it is an outlet, a way to release anger from a broken past and broken family.

I could say I write because my mom was not there, because sometimes I write to convince myself that I don't hate her.

But that isn't why I write.

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words, but I like to think that some words capture well over a thousand pictures.

Love for instance: the look in a father's eyes as he cries and sends his daughter down the aisle as a bride, but she is still his little girl; the sound of a newborn child and his parents--who are usually well-mannered and mild, but who now are wild with a passionate affection over their little one; the smell of a mid-summer's day in the back yard, where two brothers play and imagine a galaxy far far away.

Hope is another example: it is a boy on the streets, defeated and weak, but he still gets to his feet and keeps moving; it is the feeling in the gut of a mother sitting by the window, who wonders if the infinite sunset's glow will bring her boy home.

I write to paint these pictures and to make sense of the world with which we inhabit.

Poetry is color in a world of black and white.

It is definite in a lost and mislead humanity.

It is the Bible in a league of atheism.

It is truth surrounded by our lies.

Poetry is life, beating with the heart of civilization's passion and flowing with the blood of true comprehension of things incomprehensible.

I am one painter in a world of billions. Poetry is our paintbrush, and the world is our canvas.

Let the incessant flow of colors commence.

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