Why is your poetry kissed with paint?

Art cleanses the soul

I stand at the threshold of first light,
hands trembling with color I can’t name.
You ask: Why these lines glow with tinted sparks?
I want to say: because I grew tired of quiet walls,
tired of gray hours that refused to smile back.
There is a pulse in every vowel, pushing me forward.
I hold the brush of my voice, even when it feels too heavy.
You deserve a flare of brightness, and I do too—
to prove we can still shine, even on the hardest days.
My answer is simple, but it trembles with hope:

I color each syllable because the sun isn’t the only thing allowed to glow.