Colorblend

I want to work my best, love my best, and help my best.

                Among a thousand other things.

And I want to do everything at once.

               And at one time.

               At this moment.

              Right now.

And people, I want all the people to go away:

                The ones that sit behind me in class

                And make me antsy and itchy and fidgety and

             I can’t.

                I need to fidget more.

                I need to scratch.

                I need to wipe my nose.

                I need to brush my hair back.

                I need to move.

                And everyone is noticing.

                                                (I’m sorry I’m disturbing everyone…)

(I would sit in the back but then I can’t focus and all remaining hope for successful learning is gone.)

               The ones that tell me I need to do this

                                And that.

                                And the other thing.

                                And go back and fix this.

                                                Because it wasn’t good enough.

                                                                (Because I’m never good enough.)

               The ones that tell me I’m not worth anything

                                And hurt me.

                                And bite off my fingers with their sharp teeth.

                                And wound my chest with their sharp tongues.

                                And cut the ribbon-strings that tie me to my once-ballooning hope.

And I watch as the pastel colors of childhood parties float into the breezy sky and away from my stagnant life.

 

               The ones that need my help

                I can’t help them.

                                Despite how badly I want to,

                                Which is far more than my want to help myself,

                                                (And is part of the problem, I know.)

                They flash me faces of disappointment,

                                Hidden behind flamboyant carnival masks.

                                                (I tried to do something for you.)

                                I want to talk to them in metaphor and teach them lessons of good faith.

                                I want to alleviate their pain.

                                                And depression.

                                                And anxiety.

                                                And grief.

                                                                (But I can’t even do that for myself.)

                                I am Ophelia trying fix Hamlet.

                But I might just be Hamlet.

                After all, we know how it ends for Ophelia.

                And no one wants that.

                                              (Even if I think I do.)

I understand that you didn’t come here to listen to my listed complaints.

In fact, I meant for this piece to be positive overall.

                 And it is.

                 And I am.

                 And I will show you,

                                That in the dark, there is light.

                                 And from the abyss life shall spring.

                                 And from me the warmth of a thousand first-time mothers’ eyes will                                                      rise like the sun

                                 And take by surprise the reader who is caught in the mundane humdrum of                                        bad poetry.

 

I began to paint.

I began my journey from self-critical to self-aware.

I began to allow painting to clear my foggy head and water down my opaque mental boundaries.            

              It lets the blood calm.

              It lets the words flow.                      

              It lets the thoughts organize.

I learned to express.

I learned to understand self:

              I am a premature artist.

              And a post-mature thinker.

              I am a straight-A student, when I want to be.

              I am a temptress.

              I am a pacifist. 

              I am a programmer.

              I am girlfriend and daughter and sister: but not in that order.

              I am a Mathematician.

              I am an addict:

                                Of love, of life, of sweet morning air, of undercooked chocolate-chip cookies

                                And of catharsis, adrenaline, and serotonin.

              I am, most of all, an over-thinker.

              I am not the Great I Am, and cannot attempt to attain that status.

              But I am what I am.

I learned to show my love

              On canvas.

I learned to reaffirm my life

              With color.

I learned to recognize beauty

              In love, in life, in the sweet morning air, in undercooked chocolate chip cookies

              In people, in pleasantries, in the mundane, in the spiritual, in the supernatural

              In addictions, in pain, in depression, in anxiety, in grief

              In those who knock others down

              In desperation

              In art.

When dysfunction breeds in the right kind of person,

A life of pain creates a life a beauty.

              Today is sculpted by yesterday’s failures.

              The downfalls inspire the greatest ambitions to rise from me.

                                              (And you thought you were discouraging me.)

              Depression makes a person look at the world in a new light.

                              And in many shades.

                                              I have the capacity to understand lives beyond my own.

                                                                (And I know I am a better person for it.)

                                                                (And I know I can think with a brain and conscious older than                                                                    my own.)

                                                                (And I know I can appreciate the life around me.)

                                                                                (As well as my own.)

              Empathy is created. Creativity is created. Drive is created. Will is created. Life is created.

                             (And I wouldn’t give it up for the world.)

Painting taught me how to process everything going on around me.

              I paint one color at a time.

              Take it one step at a time.

              One breath at a time:

                                                                                                In

                                                                                Out

                                                                  In

                                                Out

The milky florescent sun and the wind that whistles with whimsical life and rustles the trees that creek with wisdom hold meaning and purpose to me now.

              (If I paint it, will you understand?)

Colors blend on canvas:

A fade from red to blue,

              Creating every shade of purple in between.

It’s kind of like my life,

              But only when you think about it

                              I can be out walking, alone, lost in a filter of forest and fireflies and witness the                                   mountain-line fight the sunset,        

                                              And be the happiest, most lighthearted person I’ve ever been,

                              Or I can be stuck in a room with four black walls and no moon.

                                              And be in the darkest mood.

                              I can be any color in between.

But now I can pick the colors.

              And blend them how I like.

                                                                                                                                                                          

Comments

Amseifert

The way the poems are submited makes formatting them difficult. Sorry for the places it got a little wackey! 

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