The Artist of Light
~ Blank canvas;
pure white as the snow
Pain bleeds;
brush strokes of its paint
Little, though,
years pass — she grows
’Side her image
of shame and self-hate
Hues;
ashen gray, muddied brown
Cold eyes,
shaded charcoal black
Life’s palette knife
scrapes a frown
For to smile, the aged paint
would all crack
Tossed aside
in a heap, wasting way
Her image,
discovered the artist
Humble,
no waste, for to pay
Began
to repurpose her canvas
Brushed in sunsets
and poppies, bright colors
Softened eyes,
as the blue sky, now glow
Pinked cheeks,
blushed, alight, by her lover
Lips parted,
to smile, just below
Brought to life
by his vision; a dreamer
Fiery eyes,
free from shadows of night
Her portrait
belongs to the painter
Stunning capture;
the Artist of Light
image: Van Gogh The Old Tower In The Fields
Every Piece Of Me
You first caught My eye
Then I couldn’t get you off my mind
Away with my breath, that you took
I try not to stare, just a quick look
I want so bad to feel your touch
To kiss your lips, I want so much
And then my knees began to get weak
My tongue is tied, I can barely speak
Your sweet voice, I love the sound
My whole world you got all turned around
Im so love sick, my stomach does turn
To get you attention, I must learn
My heart for you, it does so will beat
You seem to have all and Every piece of Me…
By Gary Agurries
Part 66 - Orange
Mathew’s eyelids felt heavy, and he worked to open them. He was on his back.
“Matty? Mathew, you’ll be ok. No more tumor, isn’t that amazing?” Beverly’s face came into view, then Dr. Madison’s. Mathew jolted upright, but Ruth was nowhere to be seen.
Beverly began again. “I know it’s a lot, honey, but this is great news,” she smiled at him. Always loving. Always present.
“Where’s Ruth?” Mathew asked. His mind felt so fuzzy, so jumbled.
Clean the filth of the world.
Dr. Madison exchanged a look with Beverly. “Who?”
Mathew stood and glanced out the window. Green. It was always green.
Eternal war.
“The nurse. Where did she go?” He stalked to the window, running into a sidetable in the process. The table shook, and a bottle of pills fell off. Orange capsules scattered onto the floor.
Time, Mathew.
Dr. Madison said from behind him, “We don’t have any nurses named Ruth.” The man sounded concerned.
He should be, reasoned Mathew. He was still hallucinating. After all, the sky shouldn’t ever look like... this.
It was swirling. Not just green, like he had thought. Bright green, mixing with neon orange, dissolving into blood red.
We own light and time.
The sky shifted again: orange.
Turning, Mathew realized what the sky wanted to tell him. Beverly was picking up the pills off the floor, her hands shaking. She was about to—
“Mum!” Mathew felt a darkness wash over him. Aggression. Survival. Need.
He knocked the pills back onto the ground and grabbed Beverly’s wrist. “Don’t eat that!” His voice was angry, but he felt afraid.
https://theprose.com/post/259869/your-turn-collaborative-challenge
The Time I Spent
It was the peeling paint on the garage door
It was the new windows in the big, old house
It was the snow on the ground and the snow on the table
It was the foreign breath that condensates on my lips
It was the car crash in the spring
It was the smoke that hit the ceiling and danced and twirled through the car
It was the mattress that belonged to no one
It was the razor blade beneath a tongue or behind an ear
It was the picnic table with carved initials
It was damp T-shirt’s
Sand between toes
Tattooed limbs in summer sun
The fight in the basement
Bikes hung from ceilings
The tears and the deep, calming breaths
Unspoken words
And too hot skin left out in the cold
59 - The Urge
Remorse spread through Matthew for a split second before it was quenched like a stray flame. Satisfaction built up inside him making him smile. He laughed as he took a step back, the sight in front of him not making him shudder like it should have. The smell of death, the sickening smell, floated through the air but it didn’t bother him. It was as if he’d gotten used to the smell.
But then, just for a second, he had a moment clearness. He realized what he’d done. He’d killed Beverly --the women who had been his mom or years, the one who had always been there for him. He wanted to run to the ashy remains and beg for her to come back but then all the sorrow was gone and all that was left was hate. Hate, bitterness, anger.
Matthew growled and flexed his arms at his side to keep from punching anything. He needed to break something, to feel the pain radiating up his arms as he hit it over and over again until his knuckles bled and his arms quivered.
He needed to kill.
