To the Artist Who Painted the Portrait of a Heavy Heart,

 

Your frayed brushes with shattered, splintered handles devoid of paint

from the continuing financial struggles of a struggling artist result in empty

cans and dusty canvas, warped past the point of no return from wear and tear

of countless new images being transposed in new pigments, a thick blanket

of repressed memories. Like water colors, the work of art begins to run

dripping down, dripping down like drops and drops of hot, hot blood.
 

Like a constant struggle, life has those little things that make our blood
boil and toil like Macbeth's occult scene, a floating dagger that can paint

worry and desperation in even the bravest man causing him to run

away from hearth, altar and battle field. Inside that man's soul, empty

is his capacity to reconcile what feuds he may have, a blanket

of accusations that cut and flay mankind, a mortal moral tear.
 

A return to our hero, as you seize your latest work with forceful scrapes, a tear

appears from where your medium thins, a papercut dripping blood

which you ignore for now, because bandages can snuff any problem, a blanket

suffocating any wound from the harsh world outside. Again with paint

you cover your feelings with reds and blues, a cover for an empty

heart, instead of facing your fears, away you would rather run.

 

Thinking back to political aspirations, campaigns you could have run

of smashing through glass ceilings, or the walls you would tear

down. But that life had its downsidesyou knew that, with promising empty

words to constituents, the constant sacrifice of tears, sweat and blood,

horrible attack ads screaming and slinging mud in order to paint

the opposition as a dangerous firecracker or an uninspiring wet blanket.
 

On this cold and wet morning does you find yourself wrapped in a blanket

of cheap vinyl, in front a barren pantry. Later, to the store you will run

to buy more supplies with your meager coffers, all profits spent on paint

and other necessities in her life. The tattered fabric has a large tear

but it holds sentimental value, stained figuratively with the blood

of someone not living with you anymore, and whose bed remains empty.
 

How the world appears dreary for those whose home is empty

of food, and of family. No crackling fire, no shared meal or blanket

snuggles. Just broken promises made in good oath and in blood.

Some face their issues head on, but this artist would much rather run

away from the hole in her life. You could not handle another tear

of your heart, so you turn once more to the brush and to the paint.
 

Your old canvass remains empty, as your hand starts to run

Along the ratty, mangy blanket with the emotional tear;

If you have no more paint, then you'll just use blood.

 

Sincerely,

An Empty Paint Pallet