The Want of Language

I prefer to paint,
Because those snippets of thought
Hang thick smears of color
Instead of tidy, typed
Words without texture.
The paint covers all the white
Noise provoking impulses
Like this.

At certain moments,
Even old wounds
And remembered take downs
By ex-wives and parents
Shroud themselves in silence
Beneath viscous hues
Which merge into
Serene landscapes missing
From moments like now.

And yet here I am
Amongst the critics
Taking on an ancestry invincible.
Men of letters wield weighted measures
As my lightness of thought
Flies into the air,
Untethered, foolhardy.
At pinnacle and then descent
I long to land softly
In the wet and forgiving
Squish of vermillion
And ochre.