Just like the squeak of a cheap old faucet
Its paint – a silver cheat, peels mutated in flakes
My same approach sharply bent at edge.
Like a scuff mark bothers to be the labor of your time
Or the clock – sometimes five minutes fast then two hours behind
Or gradual disasters where you never guess the change
As a river yet to crest, days from the last drops of rain
To see it fully you must wait.
I sit and play over the veins like worn old music strings
Rough for the dusty blends of scar
I tune them to my heart and with them, sing
Their stress will slice right through the best and leave me
Coughing up the rest of what I was.
This painting is over a year old, done using a photo as reference. I just loved the outfit and knew it would be a challenge for me to draw/paint. The lines below it- just another personal thing, confusing enough to hide behind…