Paintings of my past, incomplete the pictures present.
Passion, pain, pleasure, pity and all they represent.
Holes in the painting, voids of memory yet to be filled.
Wisdom, wellness, wishing it can’t be faded or killed.

Echoes in the water, reflections in the mind.
Paints of past part holes in time.
Growing larger, and larger and larger still.
Holds in past that we can never fill.

Unable to finish, unable to see.
The painting of past, the painting is me.
Unable to look, unwilling to look away.
What can be said od my painting this day.

My past is a painting, yet finished. Holes within it’s fabric to vast for any fill. The master piece of me never shall be complete. I have not strength to finish it, I must press delete. It seems so many expect so much of me and yet I am but one broken and incomplete.

How can I be all they want of me? When inside I’m dying; a slow and steady death. I march toward my certain end. There’s nothing left to say. I shall see his kingdom in few passing a day. My time comes and darkness shall finally die. In heaven it holds no power, it’s cry eternal lie.

My life doesn’t matter to any why should it matter at all.

We are but the colors of our soul. Pasted on the tapestry of life. Splashed on a canvass unseen by the eye. Only within does the painting become real. I’m told each a master piece. God makes no mistakes. I grow weary of these words for I am living proof he made a mistake.

I am no master piece, no prized work of art. My colors shown painted with heart. Large holes remain unfilled and blank. A master piece or drunken night of abandon. I’d say you be the judge. But my painting isn’t seen in this word of art.

The master piece lies to the work of heart.