Art

This day is like any other in my life-

it starts with a paintbrush.

No matter if creating causes me to bleed;

the blood is my commitment to the canvas.

Soon, the medium makes its way to my hand

and I might as well be bleeding colors.

But am I not bleeding a color?

Red is most important; the color of life.

If it were blue spewing from my wounded hand,

would that be what covers my paintbrush

making its way to the surface of the canvas?

Maybe it's the canvas who has to bleed.

It doesn’t matter where I bleed,

blood is just a color.

Only transformed into art onto a canvas

where ideas spring to life.

The bold leader of my thoughts is my paintbrush;

and their almighty is my hand.

But despite how mighty my hand,

it still does bleed.

No matter how bold my paintbrush,

it would be reduced to horse hairs without the colors.

The colors boldly lead me and give me life

with my almighty, the canvas.

Now I have unloaded my messy thoughts on the canvas,

the art speaks to my hand.

Of the flaws that keep it from gaining life.

It guides me to the wounds from which it bleeds,

and I’m told to fill them with colors,

to patch and heal them with my paintbrush.

My day began with my paintbrush.

I soothed the jarringly blank canvas,

and helped the surface breathe with color.

The committed dancer is my hand,

and my hand knows how to bleed.

But is reborn every morning, given new life.

So I will pick up that paintbrush and watch it become part of my hand.

I will start with a blank canvas and watch it start to bleed.

Blood in all different colors, hemorrhaging to the beat of a pulse to begin their own life.