Wednesday, February 6, 2008
The pigment of pain
It has always been pain.
Not physical pain, but emotional conflict and discomfort.
Without it, I’m a poet without a muse.
A writer without a pen.
A woman without a man.
Because experience proves that only the wrong men can be a true inspiration.
They’re the foil to the beautiful things in life.
They’re the reason a good guy looks so scrumptious.
They're the answer to the question of "happily ever after."
An answer that can be painted in amusing and elaborate ways.
And so my canvas remains blank in times of happiness.
A white surface whose shine only reflects tiny textured bumps waiting to grab onto color, movement, and light.
Time and time again, with paintbrush in hand, I've attempted the masterpiece.
But how can a person find a palette that inspires pleasure… when the only pigment they can see is pain?