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?
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