painted

{via pintrest}

every artist's tools have a story.

look at the old pen and inkpot, stained with fingermarks and blots of this novel and that world's creation. there was life born there.

the pointe shoes, tattered toes and dirt-marred satin. what leaps speak novels in these wrecked canvases?

and then there are the paintbrushes. 

flecked with paint and primer and so many colours that the layers have become one upon another.

oh, what mysteries of tender caresses and angry slashes are found here amid the horsehair and bamboo?

see this is what i desire. 

no more sketching with my charcoal that can be

 rubbed 

and washed 

and faded down 

to nothing with just a bit of pressure. 

i want raw. 

no more scrapping my brush across the surface of the palate, just covering the tip.

sleeves rolled up, arms plunged in up to the elbow. 

{via pintrest}

blue dripping to a puddle on the floor.

a single strand of hair brushed across a forehead results in a streak

of yellow 

and purple 

and red 

and aqua. 

skin once bare made perfect. 

no more surface living. no more sketches of me. no more maybe this or perhaps that. 

i want deep. down to the bottom where the richness resides. 

this is what it is to be used for glory. 

for so much beauty, for all this majesty. 

take me deeper. 

i ache for You to hold me.

melt me. 

mold me.

fill me. 

use me.

{linking up with my beautiful sisterhood. this place of real.}