Paintings, Poems, and Paper Mache
He roams the damp streets of London
as it gets later in the evening.
He is torn. He loves the poetry of the place,
the mystery, the picture perfect setting.
The inspiration he draws from the city is as
ever-present as the fog on days such as this.
But oh, the cliche.
Is it not the bane of every soul to ever touch a pen
and insist on fighting the cliche?
Humankind is a paper mache of a society.
We are individuals and we know it
Though it seems it has all been done before
not by you, not by me
Nobody has the blood that runs through your veins
quite like yours does in you
Nobody has the eyes that spin in your skull
and sees quite the things you do.
Individual, original, everything else expressible
Writing is a soul splashed on paper like paintings
Painting is a word sewn on canvas like poems
Poems are paintings that fit on your tongue