22 & Bored: Tangible Brushes

I’m no longer miserable for I am 22-

Once was a man stuck in folie a deux,

Not to brag but my artful hands still never make trash.

Every scissor scrap is a new piece to adapt.

For echo scratched holes have found their sound,

And blacked out rings can sing for themselves.

I am reborn,

No longer depressed-

But my hair’s still a mess,

And I’m cashing in checks,

And no simmer in bad breath.

Not the breath out my mouth but breathing in the cold shoulders I’ve learned to have smolder in sot.

I no longer rot,

Picking freedom as a bonus for new thoughts.

My perfect disguise-

Now a long lullaby knocking me to sleep.

For sleep is a memory of the good times.

For I can’t find the semantics and nuances that keeps me from leaving this town.

A city chasing its own crown from an old town.

I no longer chase you,

For there’s a new me-

A new brew.

Chasing my own freedoms and wills with blank canvases in return.

I wanna go back to sleep.

Back to sleep with blissful dreams and not a melancholy melatonin melody marauding it’s pleasantries in cultivated memories of wishful thinking and heavy hearts.

Fuck that’s a mouthful,

From arguing back feuds-

And saying that I am through!

Through the rigor and pajamas,

I wish that God had planned us-

To be together once or many twice again.

For in your arms is heaven sent.

Your ember eyes,

Sun kissed skin,

And finger painted smiles that last for a while.

For through my trials-

Your broken brushes have become my artful hands.