beneath a painter's stroke of hands

by iski

when people try to define loneliness,

they speak of a person alone in the corner of a diner

consuming their comfort meal in silence,

or a student watching a new release in a movie house

with no friends to share their popcorn with.

but the reality is — these people?

they never know the sorrowful truth of loneliness —

of having to use my hands to seize my fine tools,

to paint countless crimson strokes on my rough canvas

and having to use the same hands to clean the spattered stain,

to wash away and conceal my contentious art,

as I put on my best yet hoax smile

again and again.