When I die paint me a picture

of everything but me.

Instead, paint everything that is me.

Paint me a sky full of dreams.

Endless.

As small as the world

But as colorful as life.

 

Give it dark grey clouds

And thunder.

Let it burn bright red

Like bleeding passion.

Let it be black

With my depression

But put the soft cumulous of happiness

In between

 

Paint me the church I cried

Loved

And died in.

Paint the polished wood

Cold

Against my praising hands

With love in every stroke.

Paint me as my children

Those who were mine

Those who weren’t

But still were all the ones I loved.

 

That will be my self portrait.