 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.
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