Brush Strokes

My mind aches with longing

A need to hold my breath,

while I think this through.

The only reason I didn’t do it,

Was because of you.

The only reason I stopped myself,

Was to save your situation.

I’ll always be a scapegoat.

I’ll always think about you before me,

Whichever you I’m talking about, you.

You.

I have no sense of self-preservation,

I’m a glutton for punishment,

I’m an escapist in love,

And attachment,

And bindings.

Stuck between not just two worlds, now,

but four.

Four different lives I could potentially lead,

four different paths to choose from,

at least the paths that I see laid out in front of me.

Surely there has to be a better way.

I’m thinking in too much of a linear fashion.

It’s time to open up the waters,

let them flow in and whisk me away with the tide

into the other realm.

Let that place decide where I go,

I will listen, and I will follow.

The ordinary is so plain and boring,

my world is a film of paintings.

Flowing, in and out, of existence and time.

Moving with color and feeling,

the brush strokes create each emotion,

each facial expression,

and each tiny sense of body language.

I want my painting to sing,

I want to soar atop a mountain that doesn’t really exist,

then fly down on the thermals that I paint as I go.

Where they lead, my brush will choose,

and I will never really know.

This mess I’ve gotten myself into

is too much for my linear mind to handle.

Please proceed to ask my painting,

my song, my poetry,

what it all exactly means,

and you might receive an answer at a later date.

At the present time,

I’m flying hard and fast,

to my mountain of solitude.