Painting By Numbers

 

Poetry is cascading water

Flowing upwards to the sky

It looks like silver fishes swimming

Feels hot or cold or lukewarm

I hear it flowing

Smell its sweetness on the thunderstorm

As threatening as Oswald in a Texas bookstore

Sometimes as sour as storm

I am not painting by numbers

I am just blathering

I feel the words soil my creativeness

But many a mickle makes a muckle

Silly stones of sadness

A gaudy rainbow of monochrome

I gather these raindrops in a sieve of razorblades

“Oh, look at him the butcher of meaning

Who will hack your pretty sentences apart”

A knife of soothing stabs

Murdering the closeted little darlings with love

“C’est la Vie”

The pen squawks as it runs away

The heavens fill with words from the ground