Tuesday, August 2, 2016


You have to get your hands dirty.
Dig in deep and claw your way through the maze
There’s no gentle process here
No orchestrated deliberate prop 
Nay, not here in this sopping, glistening minefield
You have to let the tears fall—the blood flow
Have to crawl and squirm in agony or revel in ecstasy
No tedious thoughtfulness—No, “Today I’ll paint…”
Never that. Can’t be that.
There’s only impatient, daring, intense, unyielding madness
It starts as red or blue and becomes a screaming beast
You call it passion
I call it survival
A glob of paint
A drip of this
Spray that
Scrape, drag, push, pull, and dig my nails in
What do I see?
A skewed perspective?
Truth or lies?
Have I tripped on a landmine?
Or discovered paradise?
Are my hands filthy enough?
Has the twitching come to an end—or just begun?

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