Inspired by Rage
Painting’s been my passion for as long as I recall.
My toys were paints and canvasses instead of bat and ball.
At first I painted simple things, like flowers or a tree,
With little definition, but there shapes were clear to see.
Folks said I had potential, although difficult to gauge;
They said I had more talent than most other kids my age.
My parents paid for classes where the rave reviews went on
Whatever my assignment – baby, citrus fruit or dawn.
The more I heard what people said, the more I thought it true,
So painting for a living was the job I would pursue!
Of course I went to college choosing Tufts in Medford, Mass.
Perfecting my technique, attending each and every class.
Then came time to earn a living, there were charges to be paid,
But I barely met the deadlines when I tried to ply my trade.
I painted people’s portraits and a still life here and there,
For ones asked on commission like this antique rocking chair.
I also entered shows and brought my water color scenes
But I only sold a couple, not a windfall by no means.
The more my debt load piled up, the less my visions came.
Now all my pieces looked like crap; all brush strokes looked the same.
I couldn’t even bring myself to paint a single stroke.
I’d have to choose another path; my talent was a joke.
I stood there with my brush in hand; my canvas clean as new.
I shook the red paint off my brush, well really more like threw.
The color splattered everywhere – it looked like speckled blood.
I shook the black brush just the same; it looked like speckled mud.
Although I meant to toss it out, my final canvas done,
A buyer came and offered what to my eyes was a ton!
Of course I didn’t turn her down, nor ask was she insane.
I cashed the check, refilled my stock, and launched a new campaign.