I switched on the telly and I switched off. A nature programme about seasons. We are so lucky to have the variety of seasons in the UK. Lying down with a blanket, warmth, comfort. I fell asleep.
I awoke. As I came round sentences formed like clouds gathering across my mind. I wrote them down. I went to bed.
Beep, Beep, BEEP. Life is back, time to get on. Now a blessed cup of tea. A laptop. Here are the words:
The Suppressionist
I do not do what I want to do,
I do not see who I want to see,
I do not go where I want to go.
Duty,
Circumstance,
Me.
If there is any power in my art this is where it comes from.
I suppress, I contain, I concentrate.
The bubble bursts.
Then,
An eruption of paint,
The ferocity of a storm,
Unleashed and directed,
Down the arm.
Through the brush and out onto canvas.
Layer upon layer,
New land is formed.
On the surface,
All is calm.
Ah! Just like the seasons your creativity cannot be contained Julie ~ at some point it will explode into colour & saturate the day-to-day duties that, for most of the time, suppress you, frustrate you & wear you down. So ~ you are a poet too ~ & it's a good poem because all the words poured out from deep within you. It is a poem that flows as opposed to a poem that needed to be constructed. I like it :)
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