My outline is defined by the sharpness of my pencil,
and I fill the void inside with liquid paint,
thick and viscous, I should be full and famished
with the yellow of the daffodil, the green of the grass, the red of my blood, the blue of the sky, and the magenta of my bruises.
Whatever you do, don’t stare too long at this painting,
unless you desire to feel your arteries
speedily pulsating a heavy beat in your brain,
blood rushing from the soles of your feet,
and your heart pounding on the doors of your sanity.
I Want to Run
I want to run till the fire burning inside me
turns me to ash and dusts me across the world’s canvas.
I want to run till the earth below me
quakes at every step and I feel it in my knees
I want to run till the wind takes me into its arms,
flying me to the end of my world.
Photo by Andrea Leopardi (Unsplash)