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He wore a wig of solitude and
walked
away and
an angel whispered, “it’s a beautiful kind of pain”
she couldn’t see it
she wouldn’t see it
she didn’t see it
she had
willing placed shackles upon her heart and feet
“Damn this pain and this blood soaked madness!” She exclaimed in sheer terror of the level of pain
in which she was in
mall she could do was paint
to
drown out the words he’d say
the
names he called her
and how he shamed her
into hiding her Nuyorican accent and her
curly hair
she painted so much
she almost ran out of paint and
one day she she stopped crying
And one day she felt good
and happy
Again
And in the midst of laughter with good friends
mover vodka and cigarettes
she said and smiled, in perfect peace,
“it was a beautiful kind of pain
it turned my black heart
to the colors of my paints
turned my tears
into paintbrushes and
placed words in my heart of poems never written
it was a beautiful kind of pain, the
evolving kind of pain
the growing kind of pain
the giving birth Kind of pain
and I can say now
that I learned to love
as an adult
that I know what love can be at my age
and I know what love is not
and so maybe this is the definition of happy:
this me, here with paintbrushes in hand
and this me, cooking for the ones I love
this me, at peace
it was a beautiful kind of pain and I
pity him
for his
wig of solitude.
What a sad and pathetic life to lead-
to refuse the love from another.”
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