Life of a Human Painting
Location
I think far too often
There's no room for all of it in my bone skull
Some get pushed out into words
Mostly the shallow, people pleasing, floating on the surface things that human conversation lives off of
Some get written down in books that I won't read
Solid thoughts made of chemical liquid and broken trees, proving my desire to exist still once I'm gone
Some thoughts get lost, and found again
Then lost once more amid other thoughts, other facets of life
I am all these thoughts
And they have led me to a few conclusions
I am my flaws
Of which I am both painfully aware of and constantly, blissfully running from
Pushing aside, ignoring and also dwelling on, like this hangnail on my thumb that I can't stop pulling at.
I am my words
My spoken facade that seeks to paint me in their eyes with thick colors
So they cannot see the parts that are dark, lackluster, brittle
I am my filters, my stretched truths
All the manipulations I orchestrate, all the minds I try to ever-so-slightly bend
I seek to be what I value, what I admire
If not in my actual self, then in the self that is created by the opinions and attitudes and conciousnesses of others
I am an enigma to myself
Unexplainable, I am knowledge that is unattainable
The closer you are to a painting, the less you can see the whole
Past the rising and falling paint marks
I sit inside, under the color and the weight of the brushstrokes
On their eyelids, in their minds
It's hard to understand it all, to see it all
With unstained eyes, and maybe I never will
But above all, I am content
With the mess, the uncertainty, the facades
It all speaks the truth
And that's not a bad thing to be.