The Artist
Unzipping the skin she wore for the evening,
She hung it to dry.
She, who was once a ruptured-condom baby,
Was yet again unwanted.
Throwing open the medicine cabinet,
She scrounged to find a cure for her pain.
Maybe a few swigs of pink pepto to digest the breakup,
Or perhaps a Band-Aid to tape to her oozing wounded heart.
She sifted through the containers of Prozac and Wellbutrin;
There is no pill to ease the ache of despair.
Tears poured from her eyes,
Yet she had no umbrella to brace her from the storm.
And it rained red rain for days.
Listening to her subconscious,
She sprayed herself with the fragrance of hope.
She picked up her paintbrush and placed it to empty canvas.
Subliminal blueprints moved her forward.
He had no right to jackhammer her soul.
I’ll paint something provocative, she thought.
No more paint-by-number men.
She mixed her own life-altering colors,
And designed her own sympathetic composition.
A manipulation of the brush removed his callous streak.
Another stroke of the brush removed the shoeprint
Where he stomped on her heart.
She sat at canvas using her brushstrokes
Blurring boundaries between acceptance and the realm of rejection.
Her poem was in her brushstroke, stoic and unshakable.
The colored glazes reflected the silken poetry of a whole spirit.
The stroke of the brush and the colors were hers, no one else's.
So she mixed her own colors and painted a new man—
Once again master of her own destiny.
She hung it to dry.
She, who was once a ruptured-condom baby,
Was yet again unwanted.
Throwing open the medicine cabinet,
She scrounged to find a cure for her pain.
Maybe a few swigs of pink pepto to digest the breakup,
Or perhaps a Band-Aid to tape to her oozing wounded heart.
She sifted through the containers of Prozac and Wellbutrin;
There is no pill to ease the ache of despair.
Tears poured from her eyes,
Yet she had no umbrella to brace her from the storm.
And it rained red rain for days.
Listening to her subconscious,
She sprayed herself with the fragrance of hope.
She picked up her paintbrush and placed it to empty canvas.
Subliminal blueprints moved her forward.
He had no right to jackhammer her soul.
I’ll paint something provocative, she thought.
No more paint-by-number men.
She mixed her own life-altering colors,
And designed her own sympathetic composition.
A manipulation of the brush removed his callous streak.
Another stroke of the brush removed the shoeprint
Where he stomped on her heart.
She sat at canvas using her brushstrokes
Blurring boundaries between acceptance and the realm of rejection.
Her poem was in her brushstroke, stoic and unshakable.
The colored glazes reflected the silken poetry of a whole spirit.
The stroke of the brush and the colors were hers, no one else's.
So she mixed her own colors and painted a new man—
Once again master of her own destiny.
posted by Moonie at 7:30 PM
5 Comments:
Wow! That is both sad and reaffirming. We are the masters of our own destiny after all! I really enjoyed that!
Moon - That was just amazing. As one who is just discovering the power (and resulting catharsis) of putting words to paper, I was really moved by this. Thank you.
As always, I bow to your writing ability...very moving...most excellent...
Wow! Very moving, Moon. Lovely!
I want to paint how you write.
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