Who will perceive my sins, enough to be forgiven?

For what I do not do,

For all I do not see,

For none I all but feel;

This throbbing only numbed by the burning liquor or bottle of aspirin

Only adhered to when manifested by the hand,

For a reason unburdened to the world that would not understand.

For what do they see behind the hairs of the brush?

A quiet, gentle cringe of the wrist

As she is morphed into iridescent beauty

As her invisible outlines unveil to all but the blind

And the ignorant

And the enemy

And yet the friend

And yet the painter

For what lies without dimension behind that brush?

A blank nothingness on which on the paint is swept,

On which a world is built

Brick by brick

With each drop of bright oil.

And yet, hidden underneath the artist’s masterpiece,

Dwelling somewhere between the thread of the canvas and teal of the paint

Is where passion true lies.

For, the only anguish crueler than invisibility

Is being seen as all you are not,

And hanging upon a wall with chipping paint,

And scrutinized by every passing eye,

Evoking reactions only your flesh’s flesh feels.

For they always paint what is shown by the face

And yet they never paint what lies behind it.