Lost count how many, too many to quantify. Some sad, some joyful, some longing, some twinged with hope. Words, I’m made of, skeleton of sentences, blood of verbs that won’t stop rushing, humming, trying, beating. Sometimes these words stand alone, ring out in color and hue, sometimes they paint themselves on the roof of the reader’s brain, sometimes, I don’t know they do enough. Sometimes I wish for paint, I wish for canvas and brush, sometimes I wish I had the hands that knew how to paint, mix a shade or two, spill it honest and true. Sometimes.
There are points in life that demand painting, that words simply will not do. For now I aim camera at these and hope for the best, still, pieces of me wish I knew more of art, wish my hands were drawing hands, wish they could paint and disappear onto canvas. Perhaps it will come, perhaps it will not matter the skill behind the attempt, perhaps you’ll glance at the work that comes, you’ll nod with tears in your eyes, and you’ll understand.
Perhaps. For now, I write, and hope you see color where I do not.
Wish that I could paint,
sometimes words need more color.
They need a canvas.
Haiku on Life by Tyler Knott Gregson
Song of the Day
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