I try to paint a pretty picture
The world knows not of the dark deeds beneath
They don’t feel the anger in every stroke
Or the anguish in those ruthlessly merged shades
They cannot feel every bit of emotion
In the colors I fake,
And they cannot feel the emptiness as I do
When I leave a blank patch or two
They just stare on, happy, delusional, in awe
They think it is a pretty picture
That it is a work of art
That the hand of god, has played its part
Very few see the imperfections beneath those hues
The true colors I have mixed to make up the ones I show
The ones I have darkened to tone down the truth
And the few I have brightened to hide the gloom
Very few care to probe, to ask, to understand, to care
About the million shades of my creative lair
But the ones I love the most
Are the ones who look at my hands
And ask me why I smudged them
And I just say
‘I was trying to paint a pretty picture you see’
And with a smile, they know, and I know
The paradox
And we keep our secret
As the rest of them happily admire
My ‘pretty’ picture
