Painting Life

A rather creepy poem I discovered, written by a 14-year-old me. Be afraid, guyses...

Palms wet, I wait.
Outside, the street
Is quiet, peaceful, dull.
I'd paint the room bright red.
A much nicer colour,
Don't you think, Mum?
I use the brush, I stroke,
A red streak that drips,
A start. I carry on
With a second, third,
Fourth.
But it dries up black, like
It would. Just my luck.
Mum watches, her face not
Impressed. Never is, these days.
Take a Nobel Prize. I'm
Not enough, never was.
I keep painting but the
Red, it dries up too fast.
I stop, and look, and
See that it is good.
Mum doesn't see, does she?
Then again, what can you see
Through those dead eyes?
Knife to the brain, a bucket,
Full of red. Life in a can.

Masterful. Genius. This is the kind of writing that can draw no reasonable criticism at all, because it goes beyond form. Pure creativity at work, is the way I see it.

Katie, so rhythmic, so "you" in its form, even though you were younger. I agree that it's brilliant. Thank you for the warning at the beginning, because sometimes I need a warning. In the case of Painting Life, I am not afraid, grossed out, or depressed. This is an artful expression of inner pain if I ever read it. It could have "spoken" as well for me at age 12 as it does today ... and you don't need that number or I would have to issue a warning!! What you expressed here is pure, true, meaningful, believable, and to me transcends the barriers of age, culture, and, yes, even time. Guess you see how impressed I am.

Truly, Katie. You are amazing, even as a 14 yr. old.

really, one that makes me sweat - ominous, I'd say. If your mum is the one you're speaking of she'd deserve" a cake in the face" as I call it mildly

just do your own thing! Good stuff!