Finding Peace

As we sit here, a garish clown-red oil paint, 

Thick as mud and hot as blood, 

Splatters across the Earth, staining the lives 

Of those it lands on. 

It completely consumes some, burying them beneath the bloody tide, 

Claiming their lives in yet another war, another battle.

Others are forced to flee, the few lucky ones eventually finding some place to rest, 

But the little red flecks and splotches remain, long after all untouched have forgotten. 

As we sit here, the acrylics war with each other, 

Neon vs Glow in the Dark vs Glitter vs Metallic 

All fighting to be taken seriously, to make their shade or brand known to all 

To convince all that they, they are the most beautiful, most valid, most most of them all 

Arguing until they’ve all long since dried up 

That all other styles and shades are tacky or garish or just plain wrong

And need to be removed from the shelves permanently. 

In all the confusion, the noise, any sensible person left 

Just grabs the first bottle they see and runs, or is forced to sift through the mess, 

Wishing they could switch mediums. 

The worst though, are pastels;

As we sit here, on the linoleum floor of the Hobby Lobby of Life, 

Pastels make big, swooping lines over the masterpiece of our lives, 

Some by intention, others not so much

But once drawn, those lines demand more attention,

Crying for shading and blending and blurring of the lines, 

Eventually leading you, the artist, 

To ask yourself why on earth you’re bothering wasting your time 

With pastels that make you feel like all that your life amounts to

Is a smeared, chalky, oily blob 

And all that you’ve managed to do is

Smudge dust all over your hands. 

But watercolors, watercolors are demure in this sea of swirling, muddying colors. 

Anyone can use them; 

There’s the cheap crayons 8-color plastic sets, 

Basic but full of fond childhood memories, 

Even the nicer sets, although ostentatious, 

Are still just rows of unassuming pigment.

You’ll have to look for them, tucked away in a far flung corner of the store, 

Dusty and plain in comparison to more exciting colors or materials,

But if you look hard enough and deeply enough within yourself, you’ll find them. 

The colors in the set might not be flashy, might not glitter or glow in the dark,

But once you’ve found them, 

You’ll relish the quiet feeling they bring

Spreading through your soul like ink on wet paper  

In a world as harshly bright and turbulent as they come.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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