I wipe the sweat from my face,
As I stare at the paint soaked
Canvas.
It's something close to art,
It's the feelings I have inside.

Red splattered here and there.
Green specks swirl in the
Sweat that covers my body.
My hands swirl in the paint,
Fingertips touching all the
Right places.

I'm not an artist,
Not the painting kind.
My words dangle
>From the form of a
Lady's lips in White.

The painting stands
Finished and waiting
To dry.
Though it may never
Dry,
It's always filled with
My emotions.