Painter As Poet

I feel as if a thousand poems are waiting to be said
Why have I waited all these years to try my hand at rhyme?
Using sentences as colours for the words inside my head

Teasing syllables and sounds out from all the things I’ve read
To paint the kind of image that depicts things from my time
I feel as if a thousand poems are waiting to be said

Of happy thoughts, or sad ones where my soul was filled with dread,
Selecting adjectives and mixing, with no canvases to prime,
Using sentences as colours for the words inside my head

To create a kind of tapestry with words instead of thread
Coloured crimson, pink and purple, cerulean blue and lime
I feel as if a thousand poems are waiting to be said

Shall I start just anywhere? Things living or things dead?
Original or act a part? To mimic or to mime?
Using sentences as colours for the words inside my head

A poet uses language for rich tints and hues instead
– no need for paint where words are art, to forget this is a crime
I feel as if a thousand poems are waiting to be said
Using sentences as colours for the words inside my head