Paint

I am always most satisfied,
When my head is full of cotton.
The blood pounds,
My brain itches,
With thoughts I've long forgotten.

Even so, my hand still moves.
Duty bound by my will.
Eager to spill the paint,
Upon a sheet of white.

I wonder if the image before me,
Was the image inside my head.
Even so, it must have been.
For I would not be aching like so.

My arms are rainbows,
My face a smudge,
My legs a silly mess.

Standing back, I'm filled with pride.
As if I had put unto it,
My very brief and fragile life.

Maybe I have.