The smocked painter sheds her shackles
And dons the wings of the familiar brush
She paints a poem of freedom
With feet made famous by another
Forgiven yet still paying the price
of mistakes the faulty brush made
On a borrowed canvas
To be as free as the singer is to vamp
Yet frozen in the confines of meter
Refusing to sell out to the barbaric public
Yet needing to buy milk and eggs tonight
It’s an awkward life
Knowing the truth of how things work
out to make us cookie cutter citizens
Wanting to be painters
knowing the truth of how things work out to make us cookie cutter citizens wanting to be painters…
I can read this about three different ways, and I like all of them.
The best writing strikes truth off of life like steel snapping a spark off of flint. This I felt inside…