Sixty five times per minute,
The ink is pressed
Onto the canvas...
Never stopping to dry
Just to realize the errors,
Tear it up and try again.

Then dip your brush-

Into the dreams of heaven,
Through glass made of coal
Spread across the heavens...
Like black ink,
Spilled across dying skin.

Words.

Our feeble sense of communication
When we hide under so much pain.

Love could be our scapegoat
if we were simpler than physical
just look into the heart,
and realize,
there isn't another place
You would rather be.

Tears.

So simple, like liquid boulders, falling,
Carving out a history
To be read by anyone who looks.

Sixty five times per minute,
Can't we stop to breath...
Let off a little steam
Before you get another canvas;
Before we jump back into the stream.