A Hot Day in July

I went to the shed to look for wood.

Everything is organized and has purpose.
I take the wood that belongs to something else.
I lay it on flat ground and stand over it.

The paint I have is spare for other things.
I begin to organize an idea and shape it on the wood.
With every drop, I question the previous.
It will never come out as good as it should.

I drank more and then don’t care so much.
I finish one painting and move onto the next.
It’s less themed and more freedom, an explosion.
It will be the one they like the best.

Now, I’ve reached the middle.
I’m no longer sober but not drunk yet.
I start the last painting: no plan, no care, just paint.

And it doesn’t matter, really.
When that color is boring, I grab another.
When that beer is done, I grab another.
Until it just feels done and is.

Then I look at them all finished.
Did I really just paint these?
If I was pleased, I’d never admit it.
I drank some more and went paint the fence.

7 months ago  /  2 notes