The look on her face is longing.
A subtle pout. Distant eyes.
She looks out the window at the sunset.
Yet another day spent quietly alone.
Plans were made to end the quiet.
Those plans were canceled. She longs
for community, connection, camaraderie.
She wishes for acceptance and empathy.
Alas, she must open the door
to welcome in such things.
So she sits on the floor.
With longing painted on her face.

Painted on her face
is the longing for something
she can’t even fathom.
Its brushstrokes grace her brows
as a sorrowful cluster
of wrinkles cover her forehead.
Carefully colored eyes
show the depth of underwater trenches.
A palette knife covered her jaw with tightness.
She craves safety, security, and softness.
She was so carefully crafted
by those who deprived her
of tender touches and love.

Color the sky with cerulean blue.
Know in your heart it will be true.
Paint the clouds titanium white.
Use indigo to pigment the night.
Oh, painter, your palette is as sharp as your knife.
May it guide you towards vibrancy all of your life.

Verdant and lush cliffs of green,
Tangled ivy and hyacinth,
Living brushstrokes paint a scene,
Bright and peaceful labyrinth,

Sweet scent wafting in the breeze,
Reflected light crowns each swell,
Sapphiric hues swirl the seas,
Cobalt depths where shadows dwell,

Granite peaks with greyscale shroud,
Icy peaks where snowflakes fall,
Silent glaciers cloaked in cloud,
Titans tower over all,

Maple, oak, and evergreen,
Dancing sway with nature song,
Lusher robes than kings have seen,
Vines and willows ever long.

The canvas stares back at me,
Blank, unforgiving—
A mirror of my mind,
Its emptiness a cruel reminder.
I pick up the brush with trembling hands,
But every stroke feels like betrayal,
Each color too loud, too bright,
Spilling out in chaotic bursts,
Nothing like the picture in my head.

I paint, I paint,
But nothing comes close.
The reds are too red,
The blues too cold.
Each line, each curve,
A mistake I can't undo.
And still, I push forward,
Hoping for something that feels right—
But nothing feels right.

The shadows of doubt creep in,
Dark, relentless—
They mock every attempt I make,
Every flick of the brush a ghost
That haunts the edge of the canvas.
I try to fix it,
But the more I try,
The more I destroy.

The paint smears,
A bloodied mess under my fingertips.
Each flaw is magnified,
Twisted in the light,
A grotesque reminder of my failure.
The work I once cherished
Now looks like a battlefield,
A war between my vision and reality,
Where nothing wins.

I tear the canvas in half,
The fabric screams in protest,
But I can’t stop.
I rip it apart—
Brutal, raw—
The fibers of my frustration
Fraying in the air.
Nothing feels like it's mine anymore.
The brush trembles in my hand,
A weight too heavy to carry.

I collapse into the mess,
The chaos I’ve made,
And the silence comes,
Not as a void, but as a truth—
The eerie quiet of an artist
Who’s found their shape in the ruins.
In the stillness,
I see the pieces of my soul
Scattered across the floor—
But they’re not broken.
They are just pieces.
I wonder—
Am I the painting,
Or is the painting me?
And perhaps…
We both need this destruction to be whole.

I stand, brush in hand,
Ready to start again—
With the same trembling hands,
The same uncertainty,
But this time with a quieter resolve.
I lay a fresh canvas before me,
The blankness no longer a threat,
But a promise.
A chance to begin anew,
To make something beautiful
From the mess of the past.
And so, I paint—
Not for perfection,
But for the beauty in the trying.

A misty morning,
Beckons the sun.

Wavy rain clouds,
Up in the sky.

Another watercolor sunrise,
Drifting in your eyes.

Laying around, serenely relaxing with insight
Long legs, her knees up in contemplative sight
Delicate feet cradle her glass, a wine’s warm glow
Inspiration’s spark, as the seed of artistry grows

Her bed, a canvas, for dreams to unfold
Brushstrokes of thought, as imagination’s told
A woman’s introspection, inward yet free
A creative soul, colorful and carefree.

In the bleak winter
under hurrying clouds,
the wind blowing, bitter
gusts through trees’ barren boughs.

A small house: Its nooks
in new Gothic style
once housed the old books
of a forgotten king for a while.

It had been a library,
a place filled with words;
now all that here tarries
are the winds and the terns.

Its glassless peaked window
looks out on the sky
to waters that flow
by the small palace hard by.

The window is incised
in stone shaded gold —
a warm tone that belies
its touch that is cold.

The red palace is crowned
in gold and white marble.
They shine out, gowned
in hues that spite winter’s pallor.

Now blue waters and birds
add color to the scene
that fills this blank window
with nature’s stained glass serene.

This house has stood waiting,
empty in wintriest times —
now it’s filled by nature’s painting
brushed in hushed hues divine.

I look... empty, gray
and before that, crowds were peeked in

Everyone laughs, smiles
and my empty painting presses me against the wall without a moment's thought

I see someone painting my picture frames
With a different brush than the grave, the altar

He paints with words, good deeds
The image becomes something different from the gray and half-world reverie

He is a painter, a painter of my life's painting.

Poetry is a painting
The poet the painter
The reader the beholder

Poetry is a riddle
The poet the riddler
The reader the solver

Oh, poet.
You choose the metaphor.