Each word I say is a dab of paint over canvas, A haphazard splattering or delicate brushstroke. It’s my choice. When I speak of others, I craft a portrait, In any color that I like. I can paint a raging, fiery red. I can color with a brokenhearted blue. I can be bold and brash. I can be subtle and smooth. Still, my colors are much too brazen. My work is inherently flawed. I paint with great globs for strangers And finite details for friends. The sullen fellow I met at the store, Would best be a seething rouge. That jealous girl a disgusting envious green. Every word I say is a brushstroke, Each shade my moral opinion, Each hue my own emotions. I admit it took me too long to realize That I paint with my fingers. Every color I decide to use, Is liable to end up on my hands.