i am word-painter.
the pen is my paintbrush; paper, my canvas.
with words i smear color, leaving no negative space;
every inch is covered with brushstrokes of thought.
this is my art. this is my craft. and it is beautiful in its way.

no longer poet or writer; instead, i am word-painter.
my hands are covered with smudged ideas,
my clothes, splattered with stray concepts.
i am overzealous as i struggle to translate color to canvas.
so much to say, and i have no choice but to say it, all of it –
this is all i can do.

i am word-painter,
and i am limited by these words.
with acrylic i am clumsy, with charcoal i am messy.
pen to paper is all i know.
my paintings are colored by thoughts alone.
this is all i can do.

still, i am word-painter.
my phrases tilt your head this way and that
as you try to decipher my intentions,
forgetting that my art is open to your own interpretation.
by creating it, it saves me;
by taking it and making it your own, it saves you.
this is my art. this is my craft. and it is beautiful in its way.