I wish I were a painter,
so I could paint my poems away.
So I wouldn’t have to strain and look for words,
and my brush would conveniently sway.
Red would mean I’m vexed and cross.
Blue, like an arrow, would pierce my thoughts.
Pink’s for when you’re in love,
and white for purity like a dove.
And then there’s black too,
and a little grey for me and you.
That’s the thing about painters,
they know and merge the fine line in grey.
For poets go on and on,
somehow trying to make it stay…
And on a cloudy day,
when all the world’s a gloom.
I’ll draw someone I miss,
instead of pondering for hours and hours over a stolen kiss.
If I were a painter,
I’d find not the right words,
for my palette would suffice.
Ice would mean ice,
not cold or avarice.
Purple would be a bed of lilacs,
and not blood blue.
And while I was at it,
I could afford to bend down and tie my shoe.
When it’s cold, I stay in.
On a sunny day, I go out.
Yet words come only when the souls cracks,
and I guess that’s what poetry is all about.
© achillesheelpoetry, 2022