Paint these bloody stripes on the curves of my canvas,
these burnished strikes – pains from my life.
Denser than water, but fluid for my masterpiece.
Crimson soft felt; pools darkly black.
Tip the head of the brush; don’t make me blush.
An aching chasm, a mouth abused, all toothed and chipped,
and loosely falling like a mood.
There’s a part of me that’s always true,
heartfelt honesty – paint me back to blue.
Stained red, these keys let click my life in words,
my writers’ seen better days. So change me instead;
lilt and wane like eyes welling at a sad thought.
For I live in shadows of dark beauty and beastly ravage.
Almost true, paint me back to blue,
this red, I’m told, doesn’t suit my mood.
The vainglorious architect of my demise,
you crept back out from banished shadows.
In arrogance lies your strength, but the kid-gloves
are firmly removed. Nihilism’s gone, you are controlled.
Flow and ebb like a bow river, gently, gently to the sea
dwindling on a knife-edge of uncertainty.
I can cry, I can bleed, I can laugh, I can breed,
from the seed of one, now many elements make me.
No other like me, someday I’ll be free,
paint me back to blue.
Rest these bloodied hands, heavy calloused;
small poppy bruises and a fiery hearth homestead.
I remember you, your touch now gone; but not your presence.
The wetness of your lips, now evanescence.
A mood now lifted like early morning fog,
always true… almost true… paint me back to blue.