Swamp Art

..pictures purge from me.

I picture canvases tall enough to reach the ceilings of warehouses.

paint splattered concrete.

sounds of a typewriter echoing through a mostly empty abode.

dustbunnies' bookcases filled with adventures I've taken with authors

lost as I have been.

stacks of ideas breaking my heart.

salt water and pine cones wash the floor/

open windows

even when the rain is threatening and beating down upon the earth,

all the creatures big and small scatter to find their shelter.

I want to stand in its center. 

feel it wash away my pain.

feel renewed.

i imagine its effect being something like putting cold water on a hot skillet.

my layers beginning to peel away

until there's nothing but pink skin matching that of a newborn,

to start the process again.

this is art and I'm ashamed to have part in it.

it's the work of a devil, in a sense.

forever torturing souls that bear its gifts.

if I don't create,

I become stagnant.

smelly swamp water attracting and attacked by mosquitos

living off the murky water

known as my skin.

yes, there's an entire ecosystem lving in these parts.

I'm living in the swamp.

I am the swamp.