This isn’t a poem. It’s a self – indulgent sort of listening to Billie Holiday in the rain wallowing in self -pity kind of cliché and I know it. So let me do it, just this once.
I have a painting in my head at the moment: In it, I am smiling. The colours in the room are warm and slightly hazy. The rug underfoot is rich and deep and my trousers are rolled up to my ankles. I can hear the faint buzz of engines and chatter of people outside. I am not too hot or cold: just right. I am holding a toddler who is laughing and holding on to my ears. There is a woman behind me but she is a blur. She is leaning against a wall with folded arms and her head tilted slightly to the side. I know she is smiling without having to look.
My actual canvass has lonely, unsure, stuck, futile, sad, stressed, unclean brush strokes. I don’t know how to change. In my mind I see pictures and I try to mimic them in life. This is destined to fail. You can’t recreate a picture completely; it is impossible. I am lost.
