A Painting Man
I've got some medication, yeah, but I don't take it.
I've got a voice inside my head and I can't shake it.
Some say I bear the burden of a beast,
But Woolf says we've a thousand, each, at least.
I had the same old stoic father knowing best.
My efforts never satisfied, I guess.
He'd rather I was filing or debating.
But I'm never quite alive till I'm creating.
I've got a sister with a spare room and a pillow.
She keeps the table set, and she's a widow.
Each night, she gets two plates out and two chairs,
And talks to that dead man who is not there.
She always used to call me a bad egg.
She wouldn't let me stay there if I begged.
When we both are keeping guests so non-existent,
It's funny she's the sane one; I'm the senseless.
I've got a lot of damage in my hands.
In youth, I was a lightweight boxing man.
I won more than I lost, but lost my mind.
I couldn't keep a job of any kind.
I picked up painting in some cuckoo's nest or other.
I never knew what spark I could discover
Till the brush was in my hand, and not the fist.
Too bad it took so long to realize it.
Now I'm sitting on some sunny city street
With a bag of yesterday lain at my feet.
What I wouldn't give for eyesight and good hands.
What I wouldn't give to have been born a painting man.
Madeleine Hatter
