My Life is a Painting

Have you ever sat and wondered,

how you wish your life had seen more joy?

Others seemed to suffer less

or chosen to oppress.

Can't some parts have been more innocent and careless?

They don't like you,

don't know why.

So you never get an answer,

never knowing why your eyes perpetually leak.

Anger at what you can't control,

the one who took your heart and crushed it into powder

Whisked away on the iciest breeze,

smeared across their palms

that froze your cheeks in an anguished grimace,

Numb now.

Lover or friend the pain cuts deep

Tossing and turning as your body weeps for sleep.

And yet you've known the brightest moments.

A gentle hand might stroke your face or clasp you hard

in passion flirting with the verge of pain.

Moments later you might laugh

the air brightening and laughing with you.

When these images flashed before my eyes,

I could see that each brought colours to my mind.

The sombre sadness of an ocean blue,

Yellow leapings of joy or mouldy greens of envy.

The red of passion and anger both so readily mixed,

The blushing pinks of love

The drowning darkness of depression

The orange of contentment as the sun rises into reality.

I realised then that all the colours I had felt,

Had then been thrown or brushed upon the canvas of my life.

I shouldn't mourn the colours demonstrating strife.

The fact I had so many colours,

painted a more fantastic picture

with all the depth of life deserved,

for one now truly lived

and going on to add more colours.

For I am not the painting,

Nor am I the painter.

I am the frame, holding it all together,

presenting my complexity to the world.