Poetry is my coping mechanism,
But there are days when it's only art
Which can soothe my urge to express.
Because you see, the flaw in poetry is
That it's stringed by words and
Yes there are infinite combinations that words could swarm into,
Yet there's a greater infinity
In the combinations in which the particles of paint could collide,
And give birth to the spectra, that could maybe, Express this blend of emotions which words couldn't convey.
And so, there are days when I wish I knew oil painting,
Days when I could stretch the brush until I figured what I was feeling,
When I could pierce specs of white in the dark blue night sky of a painting;
When I could cut in sharp strokes into the dewed grass banking the stream,
until my ferocious frustration gives way to tired subjugation;
When I could paint the faint figure of a maiden looking up at the moon,
Until I find peace in my stinging fingertips meticulously carving her gown;
When I could instill my rage, my guilt and a tiny bit of gratitude
Into the locks of her hair,
The scars of the moon
The periwinkle now drowsy,
and the raven chicks singing evening prayers, out of the painting,
Until I rescue myself out of all the pessimism that has weighed me down,
Until the last smile of the day, emerges victorious,
Through the angle of my lips,
And it's time to call it a day.
I appeal to the words again,
To encrypt my rendezvous with the canvas
In a maze of phrases,
Which a novice reader would never decode
And I gladly go back to being a poet again.

a_lone_observer
© Pratiksha Saikrishna