A morning consist of screams
Of one sided laughter
As Father drinks his juice
And finger paints
With his cool colored pallet
Consisting of purples and blacks
I help with the blues and reds
He swigs his juice
Dips his finger in a purple
Rubbing it along a broken canvas
-
Laughing as he does so
While I add the dark blues
Dripping like rain
Satisfied he leaves me to finish
As I open up and add the reds
To make an image only a few accept
-
However I've come to realize
That people will never understand
What it means to be a painters kid
To help paint a realistic picture
Tarnished in deep emotions
As I am Fathers favorite canvas
