Every petal painted pink and prime,Green leaves arranged with perfect symmetry,A few bright shades with which to tell a life,And yet a yearning in the purity. Structure formed and inside wholly planned,Meticulously minding every speck,Ideal distribution ‘cross the blank,The artist keeping each intent in check. Always there was something yet to fix,A lily much too orange, the sky too low,Perfection has no home in art, she knew,But endless was her work to make it so. Hesitation drawing down her hand,She sensed a secret longing she’d denied. Passion never present in the art,The painting had a faulty scene inside. Tugging at her heart, a thought arose:A wish to deviate, to change her fate.Her head revealed a new perspective formed:Submission and tradition are the same Shaking brush began to craft anewHer heart and hand and mind and eye with paint,A flying mash of colors, streaks, and art.With hands of birds, she soared without restraint. Flowing from the soul, a picture grew.No longer would she hold back her desires,Vivacious dreams and hopes so long repressed,Finally free. With an unshakable infant confidence, she lowered her stained hands and smiled at the messy abstract that covered not only the flowers, but the frame, and the wall, and her clothes, and herself.
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