Art is therapy.
I gazed at every landscape
of every picture and portrait
that my eyes set their sight upon.
Wondered what all unseen secrets
lie beneath
the grinning air in it,
the literal words of that prose
sung by daffodils swaying
in the merry wind
and the layers of paint in that portrait,
painted by a solitary lad
of a small, cold town.
I have
mixed that red with black
and painted drops of it onto something
as lifeless as a corpse
saying that they resemble my tears.
Lifeless
but bringing it alive
with each word
soaked in peace, pain and paradise,
with each movement of my wrist
while stroking the different brushes,
the tip of my pen,
and the graphite end of my pencils
lifting that
iron wrought
weight off the surviving flesh
of my soul.
Art adds the 't' at the end of 'pain'.
Smeared on my hands,
the ink spots bearing whispers of rhymes,
paint stains bearing sobs of a rose.
I handlettered
'solace' across the different horizons
of the skies,
to imbibe myself of it,
when rain the blues.
I shouted poetry off the top of my terrace
until my throat was sore
and heart floating
alongside its reverberations.
I made an aesthetic container
out of my mother's broken cup,
and filled it with waters of a dream,
and hung it over
the most fragile branch of the tree.
I doodled names of wizards
on that same tree
with a blade of the melancholies.
I gulped down one book after another.
One story after another.
One poem after another.
Each had its own taste and fragrance.
Sour. Salty. Sweet. Bitter. Hot.
Sad. Funny. Romantic. Cheesy. Magical.
Heartwarming. Heart-rending.
I tore paper hearts, pandas,
teardrops, flowers and stars,
and pasted them in my
journal of fantasies.
All unrealistic, inhumane and satirical.
Pain of the January and the May.
All unending ballads or essays
combined
would still be short of praise,
that art possesses
in relieving the pain
off an agonized being.
Here's a glittery pizzazz
thank-you card,
to art itself.
Art is the best coping mechanism.
Art is therapy.