THE WORLD PAINTS ME

The world is painting itself on a secular canvas.

And I hear it all right in my ear, under my nose.

I’m so inevitably interior; I’m one of the bumps.

At first, I fall in love with the hope of being coloured in.

I do not resist; I never stopped playin’.

Then, as the rest of the surface glows with uncharted tints,

I am no longer content; I can no longer contain.

I won’t confine myself to the whites of a Pearl Earring.

Can’t settle to be a blind bit of the Last Meal in the evening.

Being a sheer twinkle of a Starry Night will not suffice.

I, so maddeningly, need to find ME before that dreamy sunrise,

Abandon the insipidity of being a mere bump of a canvas.

A minute bump that cannot see the surface saturated with a lot.

There are no limits for me to be something that I want.

For I crave to change my colours and still belong to each of them.

For I let them smear into my essence through my fingerprints,

to understand the world and tell her about all my little, peculiar pieces

and to revive all of the world’s unspoken languages.

I want to give ME a chance to be every colour and shade there is:

to be MY-complete-

overly-sensitive-

sporadically-obsolete-SELF,

to remain infinitely rising-from-the-ashes.

But do not regard me as the envious, yellow kind.

I carry the burden of the world’s brushstrokes on my thickened spine.

I’ll blind in so much that the borderlines will be graying.

That, all that’s present, at this very moment thanks to oil-painting,

will cut its ties from the past and solicitously start reliving.

No, there shall not be bad weather under my silhouette.

There are just unfamiliar colours to be met,

And tell the world to immerse my bare skin in myrrh.

I am a million different colours that shine upon my own prayer.

I am blue, magenta, yellow, green, and purple...

There are darker days too but not ever a bad weather.

Melis Erdogan