My palate of colours
Is rich and derives
From life’s encounters,
And emotions which arise

When the impulse strikes
I dip in the brush
And paint with words
Impassioned, in a rush

A lyrical snapshot
Of something that impacted
My sensibilities
And how I reacted

In this I’ve found
My passion it seems
My raison d’être
A blessed release

And the rule of thumb
I’m told in this life
Is do what makes you happy
And it does so I write

The work itself
May not always be pretty
In the eye of the beholder
Is beauty – not a pity

One person’s junk
Is another’s treasure
Still relevant
In equal measure

Mentally ill
Or an artist of sorts
I need an outlet
For my thoughts

Creative types
Are misunderstood
They’re often tortured
And sometimes judged

But the fruits of their labour
Permeate our culture
Without it life would be barren
It is essential, like agriculture

That I write from personal experience
Is an act of my own volition
Every expression of ‘art’ in existence
Stems in part from the human condition

If you happen to know
Whence my inspiration came
I must consider you a friend
Thus from condemnation please refrain

The work I produce could be fact
It could indeed be fiction
But produce the work I must
It’s something of an affliction

It’s no mean feat for me
To publish a creation
Any kindred spirit will know
The mantle I’ve undertaken

It’s terrifying to exhibit
In the public domain
To perform in front of an audience
And expose yourself that way

But it seems I am a poet
Maybe an aspiring bard
And I realise that I love it
To understand that you may find hard

If it’s not for you
Then that’s ok
But some of us
Were born this way

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