Anja Taschner

lonely artist writes

I am a lonley painter carrying around my trolley of paints. In the buckets of colour I see a formation of your face. And in my mind I could paint a thousand faces of yours and still not tire of staring.
I see the lines of your nose, I see the depth of your true smile,
In my paintbrush hide the lushes lips that haunt my sensual frustrations,
In the blues and whites, greys and crystals I touch the reds and yellows of your eyeing fire.

My fingertips burn – I cannot paint the feelings of you in me, in fear that you will never experience the flames that I have lit. I cannot sooth with the pictures I paint.
Gallons of paint will never suffice to express the colorfulness I bear for you.
Fearing that all the feelings will seem delt with, I shall not birth a painting such as this.

I am a lonely painter – oh let your paint run all over me, smother all the fears in me, I am waiting for your melody to complete my rhythm,
I am waiting for your outlines to give definition to my electrified colour web.

And I hope you forgive me if I so long scream at you, with sweeter tones than I will ever discover for another.