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.