The Painter


Away in her room, the little maiden sits,

Sent there for throwing too many fits.

Her brunette locks rest on her broad shoulders and cascade down,

As she sits cross-legged with a look plastered on her face like a smiling clown.

Intertwined in her clumsy, round fingers the little paint brush

Is weaving its way around the canvas in a rush.

Quickly and quietly the image takes form,

Because ideas slipping from her mind is constantly the norm.

Flowers, trees, and fruits come to life on the page

But may be torn apart in her disappointed rage.

When you ask her how her talents were gained,

She will shrug with a coy smile and say “from those who keep me chained.”

Potraits, on the other hand, she cannot paint.

If she produces yours, you will surely faint.

She wants to travel to the ever frightening room,

And hopes he approves of her work to avoid impending doom.

Her dream is to one day make a career of what she has come to love,

And to ensue pride in those who are above.


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