My brushes aren’t so very kind
I’m a painter, and I’m losing my mind
What if my trees aren’t green but blue?!
Would the critics find them breezy, or rather untrue?
And would it change, if they knew I was colour-blind?
My canvas isn’t looking quite right
It’s all so sober, shades of black and white
But really, I want my forest to sink
Into a Saturday night kind of pink
About half an hour before Vincent’s Starry Night
But then it got to me that I’m not impaired
I’ll just need you to be prepared
To use your imagination to escape my melancholy
Through that colourful saying of Salvador Dali
That every and all creativity is shared
About the Creator
Final Call
She flings her arms around my neck and squeezes me like she’s never going to let me go. My head spins as her lips brush against my cheek. She must be able to feel my heart thumping in my chest. I shuffle backwards and ram my hands into my coat pockets, watching her reach down and heave the rucksack across her shoulders.
By Caroline Craven3 days ago in Fiction
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