A Painter With Words

A pigment here, 

A few splotches and splatters of emotions there, 

A deep tan of pain splashed across, 

A few tearful broken lines beneath

Before the parchment easel of thought, 

Beside me a paint bucket tumbling with words, 

I capture the valley scene, 

The ocean view and the mountain top and more

Every hue, shade and every tint; 

And every hatch, crosshatch, every patch

Tells a story

And every nuance tells a secret. 

And every abstraction, an innuendo of harsh pasts. 

I paint portraits of dreams, ambitions, and hopes. 

I paint landscapes of the past, of ruin, and of regret

And my paintings tell of noble legends, 

One unveils our fears and rears

The ugly head of simple truth 

Another shares the mutual hope of the world. 

And yet another simply fills our cheeks with humor.

No painter am I

But just a writer

And not just any writer am I, 

But a writer who paints with words.

And all these paintings of words 

Are born on an old table; 

A fading quill in hand

And a flickering lamp, my only luminescence

And an imagination running riot!