The Color Spills Out
A splash of yellow paint on your shirt tail.
Here, in the knotty pine diner, it looks like spilled egg
and I am not sure it matters. It’s mess,
born of focus so much on one thing,
that others, like propriety, disappear.
It’s mess. A mark of work, the colors of your life
spilling over, spilling out, past the paper and canvas,
Colors you chose, but not in this context.
I have not decided if it is a bad habit, or something else,
truth perhaps that won’t stay in place, or color
determined to avoid being contained.
It’s probably a bad habit. A focus too narrow.
Unhealthy. The runation of shirts and shoes,
Innocent things damanged, collateral damage,
It happens to people too.
I have to tell you, I always start with the best of intentions.
Steady. THoughtful. Process.
But somewhere emotion takes over.
Focus narrows. Peripheral vision fades to a blur.
And afterward, there is art. Perhaps beautiful.
Perhaps disturbing, but art.
And I am left. A mess. Bleeding color.
About this poem
This began as an essay. But ended up nothing like I had planned the essay. Such is the muse.