Painter
I am lonely on Sunday evenings after too much gin,
Times ticking sins fall heavily on broken shins,
Lonely is born out of medley of songs I cannot remember,
Singing softly stings more than the gin on my eyelids,
I wish
I was tied to my mom's favourite iris,
Yet my iris is screaming for the pretty pictures I paint,
Ink crawling over forgone paper,
Memories havoc with too many craters,
Paper
To crippled to be read,
Later
I
am
but a painter.
And when I’m spreading my fingertips over
your face,
I taste
your happiness on my tongue.
I miss your love,
Oh how I pray for your lungs
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