Painter

I am lonely on Sunday evenings after too much gin, Times ticking sins fall heavily on broken shins, Lonely is born out of medley of songs I cannot remember, Singing softly stings more than the gin on my eyelids, I wish I was tied to my mom's favourite iris, Yet my iris is screaming for the pretty pictures I paint, Ink crawling over forgone paper, Memories havoc with too many craters, Paper To crippled to be read, Later I am but a painter. And when I’m spreading my fingertips over your face, I taste your happiness on my tongue. I miss your love, Oh how I pray for your lungs