June 10, 2002

• Benjamin Francis.  He has a name, but what of life?  There is no explanation or flowery words to help ease the hurt.  I felt your pain, and it cut like a million razors shredding my insides, leaving my blood to crust in the wind.  I paint.  It's the only way I know how to say how much I hurt, from the inside out. 

  
  

  Too much love gone to waste.

  
  

  I remember what it's like to feel your hands in my hair, brushing my face lightly, as if to see past my skin and into my soul.  You loved me still, if not even more.

  
  

  I've surrendered all hopes of ever feeling that again.  I haven't the patience, nor the time.

  
  

  I'll set myself in front of the canvas and remember how that felt with paint.  I'll share.  I'll dare.  But you'll have to look past the brush strokes to know how it feels.

  
  

  And now, I am alone again.  Same as always, and always the same.  I choose it, it chose me, because I can handle it.  Yet still, there is more to come. 

  
  

  Soon, I will be out of paint and rhyme.

  
  

  I've hardened around the outside where the sun stains my flesh and cold rain dents my soul.

  
  

  I feel old.

  • 11:54 am
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