Tuesday 22 December 2015

The Painting

But I will always remember,
The smell of paint on your fingers,
And the canvas in your eyes,
As you painted my soul,
And stripped me of my disguise.

But not all that is art is beautiful.
With every stroke and every line,
My essence ceased to look divine.
I watched you be puzzled,
And then terrified.
For only when you understand,
Can you truly see.

But you continued to create,
As I waited with bated breath,
To see your idea of me.
However, it was not to be.
The scrutiny became tiresome,
And I itched to shift,
I yearned for reprieve.
So I moved and I changed,
Your painting, however, didn't.

But then you put your brush down,
And walked away dejected.
I saw your creation,
Left incomplete and desolate.
I watched it on my wall,
Pondered the significance of it all.
Hoping you would come back,
To finish what was left of me,
To finish what you had failed to see.

But as time passed by,
The painting remained unaltered, untouched, unmoved.
Until one day I realised,
The canvas was mine, soul and body.
I was free to paint,
Had the liberty to imagine,
Every single version of myself ,
I loved and hated,
Respected and feared.
To paint the parts only I was privy to,
The good, the bad,
The happy, the sad,
The beautiful, the ugly,
The bright and the dark,
The straight and the twisted,
The past, the present and the wishful future.
The canvas could be my emblem,
Of honesty and acceptance.
It was mine, it was me.

And so I walked out the door,
To finish what he,
Could never understand.
And he,
Could never create.