Wishful Thinking

I wish the flowers I paint

would sprout from my aorta

so that instead of feeling

my brain hit my skull at too fast a velocity

I’ll feel my lips turning blue,

and my heart seize

from the beauty bursting within my chest.

I wonder if Van Gogh was onto something;

that ingesting this cadmium yellow

could somehow put the happiness inside me.

It could travel through these swollen veins

and paint my sullen insides

with a false sense of security,

and flow into

this mess I call a brain.

My thoughts would only be of flowers

and sunshine

and warm afternoons.

Alas my painting skills are only 2D

and can’t reach inside this wretched soul.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.