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

11th gradeangerdeephurtfree verse

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