abstract.

lines, shapes, splatters
dancing across canvas
water marks, stretch marks
telling stories of people past
life has gone by
abstract and in motion
remaining still is not an option
and hatred's just a waste
waiting for the right moment
leaves me only wanting
the right moment never stays
it is like a passing wind
stirring up leaves, unattainable, and
gone as quick as it came
so splatter more paint, weave more lines
for when the painting's finished,
a blank canvas will not suffice

possible career choice: writer?