Reality

I paint the colors.
Bright. Loud.
Not always what I feel,
but what I hope for,
what I see ahead, whether
it is there or not. Still,
I paint the colors,
forcing myself to see
beyond my natural darkness

I have experienced light and color.
I do still. Make no mistake.
But there is a fog now, a hard
and cruel night I must push through,
day after day after day after….
Color is my acknowledgement,
my hope, my demand that what I too often see
is a lie. And what I believe, is real.

About this poem

I am the most optimistic depressed guy you will ever know.

The painting is a detail of one of mine.

Tom