Creation

Creation is beautiful.
I pick up my brush and try to paint a dream
Layers and layers of imagination
Till it’s plastered thick enough to be real,
Tangible
Till you can feel
Like you do in a museum of art
Where you go against the labels
Which say ‘do not touch’:
You touch
You touch the dream again and again
You take it in your hands and mould it
Till the sculpture is as perfectly
Expressive
As the poetry you like to read
– the poetry I lose sleep over
Trying to get the words just right
I fight
The entire world to keep it alive
And coming
Flowing and gushing
A waterfall of words
Stringed together to make your soul sing
Like you do to the music I play:
The piano
Is black
And white
And anything but grey
when I play
Tell me
If you hear the colours
That I thought of
And I’ll paint you a portrait with them alone
And you’ll tell me
it looks like Van Gogh
And sounds like The Weeknd
Because they’re the only names you know.

Creation is ugly.
Some mothers die in labour,
trying to give birth to the ideas
They’ve carried inside for so long
Like a song
My art
The book you’re writing
Which never comes out
Because nobody fights to
protect the baby
Once it’s born
Everyone wants a free
copy
Or tickets
and paintings to hang
on the walls of their rooms:
They’re decorated without the guilt
of freeloading
You’re downloading
All that music for free
Well, what you don’t realise is that
Creation
Is expensive
Exhausting:
Takes the baby months in gestation
And the birth of a brainchild isn’t always painless
We’re penniless
You and I are friends and
Somehow, I owe you my art
Because of it
So you ask me to paint you
In colours of selflessness
And irony
Have the ideas forced out of me
Words coloured carnelian red dripping
from my brush
My body cut open in
A c – section
Because that’s how an artist must display
Their affection
For a friend
And for art.

You tell me how mothers like me
Are proud
To see their brainchildren grow into
The respectable,
decorated
with accolades and recognition
I’ll tell you how they ache to be respected themselves
to for once be nicely painted by society
the colours bright and flowing
and not having to resort
to self portraits.
I’ll tell you how artists
Give the last drop of their milk
To save the child
Which nobody cares for
Till it’s in a pageant or
on TV
And the net worth is a million bucks.
I will paint myself starving
And sing about how you can see my ribs
More than my soul as I play
And you still won’t get it.

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