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If Soul Was a Canvas

Poetry

By Docyele LlenretepPublished 6 years ago 2 min read
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(Painting by William Blake the Great Poet)

I've been painting pictures so I guess call my life a canvas

Man this hand just doesn't want to work for me

Unraveling dreams Piscean tendencies

That same canvas blank

I'd keep it that way if I was Dorian Gray

But I'm a bit more Salvador and I speak like the Dali lama

So Tina eat your food

Need a full stomach to handle a life that's so crudely painted

Hand this man a brush his fingers are aching

So many heartaches and break ups

But he made sure to cover it up with psychology

All those misgiven apologies burn like letters set to the wind

And he's just typing letters into words that form ideas that might just touch upon your soul

A lost soul trying to find his way in a world so cold but he burns so bright

A hermit smoking anesthetic to numb the aesthetic and let him vibe

He had love love lost he paid the cost his pain is what lets him know he's still alive

He swallows blotters to shatter his ego he knows he slows when he lets go of pride

He knows he glows when he shows what's inside and he doesn't hide

As long as he stays focused and doesn't sidetrack he might just lay tracks that sets the fame train in motion

'Til then he's just steady coasting trying to get away from drinking love potions and all the usual commotion

Unusual is his potential once he's awoken and has sunshine instead of torrential rain draining his aim in life

His aim isn't a white picket fence, green yard, and beautiful wife

He wants knowledge and truth

He writes this on his wrist as he ties his noose

Because it's all just a role actors in positions like planetary conjunctions and oppositions

It's all just aspected

Why does he feel defective

What is his soul objective

He tries to stay objective through all that he's subjected to

Thinking he isn't the only one how it couldn't be true

All the things he knows now that he now wish he knew

Sitting back tripping by himself he himself watching himself watching the pretty colors change hues

He hears a tune pied piper playing to elude the cosmic symphonic etude

Falling back he is into his hermitude

And he doesn't mean to be rude he just knows when the universe calls the Jude

He's biding his time waiting for June so he tells himself "Don't July to yourself"

He's high on himself

Too high on his shelf brush the dust off the buckled belt of the book cover and uncover

What's between the pages of the heart he never felt

He now realizes

Why did he paint his soul blue?

art
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About the Creator

Docyele Llenretep

Mystic, Empath, Shaman, Reiki Practitioner, Exorcist, Occultist, Poet, Writer, Healer, and Hermit. I am called many things, by many names, with many titles, but you may call me Docyele. I practice many different paths and observe all I see.

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