Thursday, May 26, 2011

The Weathered Old Artist

9 o'clock on a Thursday night;
you put on your cap
and your black felt coat,
and head out the door to fight your demons
for the coming week

Trapped in your right-mind
and discouraged old age,
a greyed and tortured artist
who's felt every pain an artist should feel
and lived

A mentally deranged man
with a heart of gold inside his chest,
pumping out charity and creative light,
blackness and the temper
of the Devil himself

I want to thank you
for my twisted vision of the world
Impairing as it may be,
I have a reason to open my eyes in the morning,
and wonderment at opening the blinds
to a place outside my window
that's graciously abstract--
beautifully wrong, and wrongfully right.

(It's not in my blood
to think in straight lines)

It's hard for me to say,
because I thought I hated you
for much of my life,
but you make me want to do better
and beat my demons
and talk to angels
and paint the world a lighter colour

But ever since I was a little girl,
the smell of paint thinner
has been home
to me

Congratulations on your one year, dad. We're all so proud of you.

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