Trails.

Off goes that mask,

Off goes the tirade,

The rage, the raging rage,

Transitioning –

Off goes the weight,

Of having to live up,

Off goes the attire,

Attire made to make flesh & bones fit,

Even if they don’t,

Fit to a certain cut,

Cut to a certain bent.

Twirls

And each time you hang up,

my heart,

it breaks just a little bit;

as your calloused, hardened finger –

hardened by work, and hardened by play,

by the way it grips the paintbrush, by the way it guides the ball coming at it with agility and poise –

meets the red on the screen,

methinks,

that deserves my touch, my tender play,

with my hands, that guide it places,

with my fingers;

and you might not be able to help it –

what you had set out to do;

so can’t I.

 

 

Give in

Bittersweet, burgeoning colors,

Colors that would’ve fit in an art exhibition,

Popping,

Popping whilst I prod,

Taking form,

Providing function,

Colors that engulf me,

And my plethora of thoughts,

Colors that observe, colors that take in,

The entirety of my being,

The love that I made,

The soft words ringing in my ears,

Colors that absorb,

The loudest of intention,

The warmest of thought,

Colors that reciprocate,

The travails unknown,

The travails of every single person who has taken in the colors,

Colors that evoke,

That feeling of having-been,

Those feelings of further-more,

Colors, that wouldn’t have looked so out-of-place in an art exhibition.