The stroke of the brush is a mesmerizing motion, 

the crimson of the paint similar to blood flowing through veins. 

Through each stroke against the canvas, 

a portrait of deepest desire is formed. 

The true depth of my desire shining through the paint,

the art, a form of self torture as I’m teased 

with things I can never have. 

This brush, an extension of myself cannot be stopped, 

my truest self known, as I allow myself 

to be lost in the creation. 

Of light and heavy strokes,

meandering and wandering lines,  

they help to create the broken beauty that is my masterpiece.

The piece which is a part of myself

 is my cry for help– 

a true struggle beside all it represents,

 desire can be pain. 

My mistakes evident in violent slashes I’ve made,

tears mixing with the water used to purify the brush,

through this paint I am set free.

Chained down to what never will be. 

This art is a prison of my own making.