Pigments

There is a method to my madness, a reason
for so much penned anguish. You see,
I am actually the master of my own suffering
Tied down, sprawled out, it is
a prism of light, and I have deconstructed it
Every hue, every shade, visible
for my perusal. The reds of rage,
the greys of apathy. The deepest
blues of the deepest sorrow
Faded fuschia of love lost, the color of a bruise
The greens of envy, wild like tangled vines. Brown
where I had buried myself in denial
Written on unknowing white, in something that is
not quite black
Not quite concrete fact, nor undeniable truth
My poetic synesthesia,
my nonexistent pigments
My tears, my blood, my sweat,
my breath condensing on a windowpane
turns words to watercolor
My father wears a shirt that reads
“Art Saves Me”. Words, to watercolors, to what?
Let me give you a hint.
Rest your ear against my chest. The rhythm played
is saffron yellow like the sun, or spring, or
hope.
A timid smile that stretches
into a grin, and a peal of laughter.
It is the only color left
after my palette of pain has dried up
and flaked away. At the end
of the day, when my well of words is empty,
it is what remains.
My secret: I am happy.