"Paintbrush (To The Chest)" in Poetry is the Window to the Soul...

And sometimes the painting writes itself while the story, well, it is plush and powerful, but the colors lack the subtle stroke of a skilled painter, as they swash on heavy and so clumsy, ah, so it ends.. so it begins..

“Paintbrush (To The Chest)”

Take a paintbrush to my chest
Swirl on those colors that speak
That say the words you know me
You know me
Scream out loud that you
You..
You…
You know me best!

I am a butterfly
And just sometimes
While I am flying by
Oh, sometimes I’m worth it
But most times?
I am far, far less
There are moments where
The colors you would paint me
You would shade me
Are vibrant and sultry
Even a bit country
But they are worthy
Something I have not heard from you
In so long that I lost track

And I’m obnoxious in all the ways
That that’s something
Oh, that is a particular something
I would not stop a count
So that said it all to me
Says it all so painfully
So succinctly that
When the time spanned beyond
My pointed memory
Of the meaningful days
Well, I knew then
I knew then this was not built
It was not meant
We would not last

Not everything is for always
Not every day is for painting
And not every girl is a damsel
Worth all that she ought distress

Not everything is for always
Not every day is for engraving
And not every girl is the storybook
Just an inevitable The End-ing
Where she – she is the monster
Disguised as a princess

And monsters posing
As a princess
So love a wayward butterfly
Even if it’s only occasional
And it is lost — ah, in actuality
Well, they like them lost just fine
Oh, yes, they like those best

© Brian Milici
March 18, 2015

May you always find your smile.