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Paintbrush (To The Chest) [Mar. 18th, 2015|05:22 am]
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 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.