An Unfinished Painting

(welcome back late night freewrite hype)


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I have come to know the image that has been painted by the soul.
It speaks of a cliché,
but I stand before you now to justify its difference.
So I gaze out through one’s presence only to find a portrait of my mind.
and as I pick it up, all the subject matter it holds runs off like un-dry paint.
Loose with no solid substance,
A fresh vision put in place with a brush oversaturated.
Overused over time to the point where it no longer bear its own original look.
How ironic, that my splitting image of the tool can be used to manipulate my self conscious
and hold the potential to build this misinterpreted perception of reality.

I understand I hold the key to unlock my minds eye,
but the only problem is it’s not so easy to see why I can’t find it.
It’s like watching a locksmith run through a ring of keys,
hoping that he would hurry up and just find the right one already.
As if life depended on it.
As if time relied on it.

But through the re-evaluation.
I’ve viewed the social norms society creates as hindrances
Restrictions to confine the spirit in which the soul wishes to regain control of.
The difference lies within these lines.
But the cliché and ironic reality is that they always remain trapped and embedded in these words.
These words that are merely a shameless, and hopeful effort to convey truth.
Because sometimes truth hurts,
and because sometimes truth should not be admitted.

So I leave the painting out to dry.
But the paint keeps running off.
Even if I laid it flat on the ground, its contents spill onto the floor.
And while many would equate this as endless tears of sadness,
I realize it now and see it like overflowing tears of joy.
A “happiness” and form of content to know that my soul is forever changing.
Never still.
Never dull
Like dancing in a cleansing rain
Paint constantly being applied to the canvas.

A painting never finished…