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 warm afternoons.
Alas my painting skills are only 2D
and can’t reach inside this wretched soul.