Familiar and Squeaky
A deep breath.
A beginning again.
An admission that your wounds
have slowed you down,
drained you, left you with a layer
Never fatal, that rust,
but rust none the less,
and like the tin man
you squeak a bit as you begin,
and the oil takes some time to work.
Back to basics.
The brush strokes where you began,
a reminder of visions where you began to believe
you could. A few words, Familiar enough
to allow you to work without fear,
squeaky enough that someone
might pay attention.
About this poem
I haven’t painted in a little more than a week, since all this mess with the kidney stones. I will probably feel up to it again sometime in the next few days. When I do, I will go back to a style that is my basic, beginning style, rather than the experiments I have been doing lately. It’s how I shake off the rust and regain the courage to paint and shut up the inner critic that tells me after every break from creating, that I will never be able to do it again.
We all have our tricks to shut that loudmouth liar up. This is one of mine.
PS: Yes, the painting is one of mine.