Take My Corpse to an Art Studio

Because my core is dead, I need you to
Stich my shattered shell with dyed needles—
Stain a silvered skeleton deluged in dismal memory.
Ash trays sit static on my living room table,
My nasal cavities are choked and blackened.
Their hollowed walls form relics,
Eldered and distilled in broken bottles—
Aged years of empty promise.
Take my corpse to an art studio,
Let it drip in rainbowed dye,
Paint away my pain in pigments.
Give my brittle bones a framework,
Some jewel of saturated dreams—
Desire to fix my fractured existence.

I want you to paint flowers that stem,
Spring from the woe of my sunken skull.
Lend my mind a compass—
Some map, any form of direction.
I’m drowned in distractions,
My thoughts wander on staggering feet,
Lost in the present, attempting to misplace—
Unwrite the ghosts that bite,
Gnaw and bloody my lips with the past.
I want your brush strokes to be feathers,
A gentle wing that extends the grace of control,
Hushes my devil games.
I’m tired of the chains,
My habits turned gated prisons—
Repetition breeds confinement.

Since I am dead inside, I need you to
Paint over my heart in cardinal hues,
Give it a rhythm, some honeyed beat.
Let me uncover the beauty in Hell’s intricacies,
Be cognizant of life’s artistry.
Let me be a river—
Altering but incessant, varying yet ever-flowing.
Paint my numb skeleton,
A soul dead in hope’s absence,
A wiltered flower clenched in Winter’s breath.
Take my cracked pieces,
create a beautiful mosaic—
Help me unveil new beginnings,
Find the purpose in existence.