Self-Portrait
There are days
when I feel like Pollack
inside, vibrant, violent colors,
bleeding paint out of the pores,
a disarrayed splatter of chaos.
I walk in a Pre-Raphaelite
dream, like floating upon air,
lurking Nymph like in Waterhouse
streams, framed within
Dantesque intensity.
I have become trapped
within a Cubist cage
and find myself becoming
all hard angles, razor sharp
edges yet losing sight of myself,
I know only twisted contortions.
Vanishing into the Starry Starry
Night, drinking in Midnight Cafes
I watch myself like a distorted
stranger from afar, the lines of
reality starting to fade gradually.
You pull me through, my
Caravaggio, tormented soul,
yet with such startling clarity,
I become entranced as your
Narcissus gazing in the pool.
When I begin to become
disarranged in Picasso
fashion, misplacing everything
I recognized within myself,
you know how to realign
my delusions and restore me
to Botticelli splendor.