Paintings and pain.

*This is a really, really long poem .

They clog the halls,
Halls that exist in my body and mind
Halls that are intertwined,
Halls of three different kinds.

There are three paintings in my house.
Three paintings absorbed in my walls,
Three paintings that I have to look at everyday,
Although, sometimes I do not wish to look at them at all.

These paintings clog my halls.
Halls that appear like vessels,
Soaked in blood and painted in red.
Halls that exist in my house,
My house with walls and
Three paintings absorbed in them.

The first painting resides in halls
That humans call “Arteries”
And I’m in love with how it is so white,
Bright red roses and happy faces
And happy memories holding on to it, tight.
Happy times and happy days and
Happy walls painted in red.
Some parts of these halls are a little too blank and neat,
I’ll smudge them
With more happy paintings that I’m in love with.

The second painting resides in halls
That humans cut when they wish to die
And that, I believe, is why
This painting makes me want to cry.
It is sad and full of hatred
Hatred that cold days have for cold nights
Hatred that people have for death.
And hatred that I have too much for myself.
Hatred that brings sadness
Sadness that blooms on sad days.
Sadness that blooms in the goodbyes
Between dead petals and pink stems.
And between rings and hand
And snow and sand that exist together in some far off land.
I just need a little rhythm,
So ignore what I say
Snow has nothing to do with sand
Not until right now, not until today.

Sometimes the sadness seems
Too little in front of the hate
What else can be sadder?
My halls soaked in death?
My walls are soaked in paintings
One of which, I hate
It makes me think about everything that I once had,
It makes me think about death beds.

And the third one, the last one,
Is the painting that is hard to look at.
I can’t look at it like
I can look at the happy and the sad.
It resides in halls that connect each other
Like clouds connect and form the sky
The last one, I don’t understand
It’s completes the collage of my entire mind.
It blinds me when I look at it
It’s like a chocolaty cheesy chicken soup
Like a bulb that glows without filaments
Like my halls painted in reds and blues.
Like a worm with feathers, that swoops like an eagle
And drowns in oceans
With reddish- brown hues.

The last painting does not make any sense
Like blue plates and yellow throats,
Lying on roads that lead to
Huge, wooden, sail less boats.
Boats that float,
In the high oceans
Oceans that are waterless,
Oceans brimming with suicide notes.

Three paintings that live in my house,
Have clogged my vessels, my three halls
Just three paintings, can you imagine?
Don’t worry, I don’t lie a lot.

My halls are covered with paintings,
Like our bodies are covered with lies and skin
And like I am covered with three paintings,
Three paintings that lie under my skin.

Poetry, pain and perfection are all my three paintings.
One makes me happy and one makes me sad and the last one doesn’t make any sense, it is hard to look at.
They are paintings that are carved in my mind like scars that you gave me.
Sorry! Scars that “I” gave me.
I love talking to myself but I also hate it.
I hate it like I hate my paintings, all three.
I lie very often sometimes. I’m sorry.
Forgive me.

My paintings on my walls, clog my halls
And reside in my body and brain,
Inside my vessels soaked in blood and painted in red.
My mind is a painting in itself but,
I am just like pain- the only painting that I hate.
I never learnt how to paint and that is why
I can’t pain paintings but I can paint pain.
Aren’t they both just the same? Please tell me that they’re just the same.

One, I love and one, I hate and one
Completes the collage of my entire mind.
I’m trying. Trust me , I’m trying,
To create paintings that I can count
Like I can count nights and tears
And scars and beer
And crow and lips
In my brain, right here.
I just need a little rhythm, so ignore what I say.
Crows have nothing to do with lips
Not until right now, not until today.

I’m losing poetry
I’m losing my pain
And I’m losing perfection
And nothing’s the same.
I’m losing my count, darling please wait!
One and two and three
Poetry, pain, perfection.
Perfection and poetry and pain.

I let all three of my paintings stay, stay fresh and framed
But I can paint none of them.
I can only paint pain-
The only painting that I hate.
That’s all that I can paint.

I’m too lost to be able to think
But trust me, I love all three of my paintings.
Happy and sad and one that doesn’t make any sense,
I can look at my paintings all day.
My three paintings, I can die for them.

“If you can”, I am talking to myself,
“Create a collage of all of my beautiful paintings,
Start with the one which is called “poetry”
It makes me happy and I’m in love with it.

The other is “pain” and it makes me sad.
I hate this painting but I also love it so bad
It’s the only painting that I can paint
It shines above the three. Remember, you must never ever forget your “pain”

And the last one is called “perfection”
It is hard to look at, it doesn’t make any sense
But it completes the collage of my mind
It is difficult to understand but important, hence.”

All my three wonderful paintings,
My three paintings, I can die for them.
They have started crumbling off my walls
And I think that I need to paint them again.

But since I can paint only pain
I need some time and some courage
And oh! I also need a promise.
I need a promise from myself.
A promise that says, “Paint poetry
And paint your pain,
And paint perfection,
And love all of them.
Scars and changes are constant and
Constant they will remain but,
Your mind is a painting in itself,
And it will always stay the same.
Trust me, I don’t lie a lot.
It will always stay the same.”

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“Something that makes no sense to you can make perfect sense to someone else.”