Wanting Pain

I miss the delicate touch of the brush. 

The bold strokes that were made in rush

Dark, light, high and low. 

My hands now shivers

And the mind still ignores, 

Yet the heart shouts out from the core. 

The feeling is faint and tired

But its attempts were strongly wired. 

I still miss the lovely scent of the paint

And the patient canvas-

Standing empty and white

Only tempts me to paint a yellow strike. 

Of the behind scene of hills and trees, 

 that is waiting to get captured 

on my painting screen.

Everything is there still

Only me who avoids her priceless skills

Can feel the tears coming up to the brim. 

Yet they get stopped at the standstill.

No one cares or looks at this, 

So that the self is not ready to share

The ruling pain that kills. 

And I miss all these ornaments 

 Each day and night

That reveals my true identity.