The Painter

    The Painter. 

 If I could paint a a thousand words of all of those who wronged me, then I would paint the heavens where all of those  abscond me.
  I would dab my pellet with a brush of tasteless verse , meant  only for eyes that cannot see these thoughts that most astound me.
  Then curse the easel of canvas not, for holding back my dreams, for I the master  of a perilous shot have made strokes of not what they seem.
  I cannot mix my words with a sword for I only wield a pellet knife, but I may cast my thoughts upon the world with paintings of her strife. Then throw those paintings into the fire for they are only for me to see.
  I hold my brush not because I must, even now as the colors they get fainter, I paint these words not because I must, but because I am the painter.
By GWRoggenbuck