To paint a portrait

you need the colors of dull emotion

you need to graze the surface with the texture of depravity

you need a brush whose bristles are stained between hope and despair

           set the frame so close to perfect, with the image so clear

the paint dripping from your arms as you reach for that glossy canvas

paint over the failures

paint over the mistakes

Paint over their muffled voices

          echoing through that closed wooden door–

Their words mean to deceive you, to pull you to their false senses

such flawed advice clearing away the frame

clearing away the image

Their words now only wet the brush

               –So paint–

Paint the face you wish to see–

with the viscous colors seeping from your shaken arms

staining the hard worn tile floor

Paint those voices out, now so distant and silent–

as your wounds fall slow into the porcelain bowl

dripping like the droplets from a cold faucet

Paint like the world has turned its eyes blind–

when only the sound of brush strokes land in your deaf ears

echoing within this empty insulated room

           and if you would ever falter

letting go of its splintered wooden shaft

trembling hands

stained fingers

Fallen arms that refuse its grace, giving into the heavy bristles

          only then should i lift them back to the canvas–

Because in truth

i can’t stop painting

ever brushing its reflective surface

Trained on the biased critique that hold no true love for this work

with the vacuum my conscious mind had become, holding onto that brush

painting over the nothing that fill this empty vessel

But now, the void has made room for this burning passion i see; because–

Together 

we can see the image we so desire

Together

we can cover the blemishes and cracks that fill this canvas

Together

            –We will paint our perfect portrait–