Watercolor dreams

Tears stain my face,
like watercolor dreams,
mixing and turning,
to the sound of tearing jeans.

Paint stains paper,
but no one seems to see.
The masses just put the art on display.

The product of years of pain and suffering,
I create something of tragic beauty.
but the world doesn't change.

Through the canvas of heartbreak the color seeps,
a flood of passion turned to mud.
I make a masterpiece stroke by stroke, sob by sob.

The lives of the condemned go on just the same,
and leave me without purpose.

My screams aren't heard over the chemical rain,
the old dried blotches rise to the surface,
at the will of my mind,
provoked by words that cut like knives.

My studio burns,
and with it my creativity dies.