the fresh
eggshell walls
create a pungent scent

replacing the purity that
once filled your lungs and
year after year of calming
hues as taste came and went

distant screams of young
children laughing
become sucked into the
quiet humming echo of a
rattling vent in the other room

and after the wet strokes
from the thick brush initiate
the decision to finally go,
the heavy collision of tired
crooked nails versus
dry calloused hands
and manmade tools
strategically pierce the clean canvas

a few minute wall particles
escape between each breath,
and patiently waltz in a drift beneath
the bent rust after each moment of impact;
slipping between the fibers that kiss your heels

hazel eyes that smiled
and hugged crows feet
now hang in your face,
covered by marked fingerprint glass;
a preserved memory now beginning to fade

the paint has already begun to crack

I wrote this about two months ago and finally decided to post it. Feedback is appreciated as always. But also, I would be interested in hearing what you think it is I'm telling with this poem/story/I don't know what this is exactly :)

1 comment:

Cooper said...

i see someone who was at one point an artist who drew "pure" things with "calming hues" for years and years.

now that has been replaced by painting walls of houses for money since i suppose s/he didn't succeed as an artist.

this sort of appears with the screams of children being sucked into the room. loss of innocence/naivety and what have you. the person is no longer in "the other room"

crooked nails and calloused hands to me sort of confirm this person is middle aged or older.

you use words like "canvas" and terms like "patiently waltz" which lends me to think that the person is still trying to live out that dream of painting although the setting is much sadder now.

sad in that "hazel eyes that smiled and hugged crows feet now hang in your face"

so either the person's own eyes are drooping now, or maybe whoever their muse was is now gone from their eyes. something like that

the paint cracking is just sort of the embodiment of this metaphor that all dreams usually "crack" due to harsh realities that we don't usually see in our idealistic futures we imagine for ourselves

that's what i get