There's a woman outside the art gallery
With her easel and paints
She stands facing the plaza
In all its lack luster
And she watches the buildings there
Seeing if they'll get up the nerve and talk to her
Show their true colours
So she can replicate them in her art
But they stand still
Rigid
Unmoving and almost uncooperative
Not wanting to participate in the name of art
She's tired of painting colourless pictures
Each one after the next
She almost wishes she was an abstract painter
Instead of a realist
Maybe then
She could relax with some wine or weed
And paint out her feelings
As wonderful and wacky as they appear
Instead of this
Instead of standing out on a prince george street
Staring at a boring building
That she is paid to make look interesting
When all it wants to be is miserable
Like a mirror she never wants to look at
Because it reminds her
Of where she's stuck
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Book 4
Poetryhello again! another poetry book - number four, to be exact. if you've been here a while, you know the drill: there's no order to this thing, and after 100 poems or writing pieces, there's gonna be a new book. about the cover: it was a Thursday at S...
