Incomplete

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

Look

Look

Look

What do I see?

Balance?

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?