An Artist is God

The nights are cold and wet, like the nose of a dog curiously, lovingly, touching my skin after a drink of water.  The wetter the night, the colder my bones and the emptier my heart. I thrive in the gloom like a spider, filling the emptiness with paint and turpentine, letting it seep into every pore and fibre of my soul. I am an artist married to sorrow and the gentle deaths in every moment.

An artist is god, painfully ripping away and destroying the things so lovingly and beautifully created with his own hands.

Shadows of obsession creep into every corner of my mind and body… It is an addiction, a violence, a devil dancing within the walls of my skull- maniacal, mad, but King.

Blue clots of oil drip from brush to canvas, staining my skin like blueberries…deep gashes of blue, swathes of blue.

Blue is always sorrow, even duck egg blue, and robin blue… Hydrangea blue fades slowly to a mottled, rotting brown.

I can drown in blue and brown.

Every stroke from brush to canvas tears away at my flesh and soul, as if I am cleaving parts of myself and putting them on display. Will the world laugh, cry, or even notice the layers of pain, of sorrow and of sweetness?

It doesn’t matter; I have no choice but to keep cleaving and tearing, ripping and peeling parts off of myself.


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