Writings of a Phobophobe.
I am but a painted being,
Insignificant
Are my feelings.
Fortunate,
On this canvas I’m living.
No one knows what I’m truly seeing.
On the walls I’ll be hanging,
I blend in well with your surrounding.
I am but just a painting,
I can’t be with you where you’re going.
Small portrait it is,
Takes me a week.
It pains my wrist,
To finish a tweak.
She kept my brushes,
Obsessed with organisation.
Armed with kindness,
And the best intentions.
But artists hate it,
When their tools are kept,
It is symbolic,
Their inspiration trapped in a shed.
killgwen 