The walls are white and,
blank and bare,
Like an empty mind.
No color,
No character.
She lifts her brush
And in one stroke,
Starts a
new project.
Burgundy streaks,
Breaking the barrier of creativity.
Rising and falling,
Brush in hand,
It is,
Rising and falling,
Painting a dark picture.
It is no longer bare,
No white in sight,
The walls stained red,
The floor the color of sand.
First in is happiness,
Bright yellow tulips,
In a pale pink pot.
Then regret,
Dark blue loveseats,
and a lavender rug.
Third is simplicity,
the easy way out.
Black and white
sketches
In ash grey frames
Hang on the wall.
She sets down her brush,
her hammer and nail.
Thinking,
"Perfect, just perfect"
and makes her choice
For the better.
YOU ARE READING
In My Mind
PoetryThis is my unprivate diary for anyone to see. It is where I'll post essays, poems, etc. Anything that helps me vent my anger or I feel that should be here. Some posts may be depressing but they're how I feel and help me vent.
