Ink-Stained Glass

I write a poem here and there.
I see artists splatter their canvases with words.
The paint is still wet.
It puddles to the ground.

I stumble along the city walk,
watching street painter's spew words like volcanoes.
Powerful volcanoes, beautiful deadly things.
I'm infinitely jealous.

A cathedral looms nearby
I walk in with head bowed.
They paint delicate pictures
but their words are chants and solemn vows.
The emotion filling their music is high pitched and hollow.

Words are shallow bits of fluff without human experience.
I'm a human, I'm imperfect.
Maybe that's why gut-wrenching appeals to me more.
I think I'll go put on my galoshes and jump in puddles now..
so I can feel something beautiful, something real.