Friday, July 10, 2009
A Self-obsessed Creative Analysis
A white page, or an empty blue-green glass on the table top
Strewn with debris – half-eaten chicken limbs, pulses and bread crumbs?
I am a kindergarten art book – grand and flying with colours.
A symphony, or a tune hummed by a couple in love
On a crazy, lazy afternoon, hiding from the world behind curtains?
I am the cacophony of notes, scales and skills – never coming to an agreement.
A tear, or a poignant tale of a long gone kingdom
With princes and princesses and knights on white horses?
I am just a helpless child with hopeless fairytale romances in her eyes.
A success story, or a corporate wearing an ironed tie
Over an ironed shirt tucked inside a pair of ironed trousers?
I am a struggler who starts over and over – again and again.
A petal, or a rose garden blooming in winter
In the foreign fields of a foreign country?
I am a bunch of wasted- bundles for sale.
I am not blood, thick enough to speak of
Generations of pride and legacy.
I am water stuck in a century-old well – green and creepy.