I swing my brush across the skyline
Finding many jewels, in a coal mine
Paint starts to drip down on the ground
I can see how the earth is more round
Brush and brush then brush, I’m hitting!
I’m now standing on my feet, not sitting!
The stroke of my pen runs across my art
I paint, I cannot tell its end from its start
The thicker the paint, the more I sink
I draw by the pencil, pen then the ink
I stop and look at the art I made, forming
But color melts down as if it is warming
I think of her face so I draw and express
Emotions on paper, show all, never less
I use my brushes and tools to create
I have no time to think nor meditate
I stop, no… wait, it is not me that is stopping
I look at my brush, dry! It was just dripping!
My tools are all soaked in ink and water
I have no expressions nor words to utter
If I cannot paint, then what am I? A fake!
I feel my heart starting to race and quake
I see a blade and a clean brush, so I rush
With the blade, I cut open my hand, slush!
I’m dying yet living my life in sync with all
O brush! Fall on my canvas before I too fall
Blood gushes out, spreads over the ground
I paint in pain yet there is not a single sound
My breath is taken away by the art in hand
You are not me, how could you understand?
I swing a last time before I die, desperation
Marking this as mine, my eternal separation
I smell all the paint by my last breath
I drew not art, but my life till my death
August 2018