Paint Poem by Elizabeth Haasch

It was you me and these white washed walls.
Nothing else to look for.
Nothing to see. Hear. Reveal.
because the lies were covered up with plaster.
So here I stare in this state of nausea
wondering how to patch up the holes
fix the ceiling and refurbish the floors.

Paint brush in hand.
Paint on the floor.
Paint on my clothes,
in my hair,
on the floor,
in the cracks.
Paint everywhere.

Again nothing you want to see
or reveal yet it is out there
like paint on the walls.
For everyone to see
yet no one is there to notice.

You missed a spot.