The Painting

In year three I painted a bowl of fruit.

Focusing on the shapes involved,

How the composition lies,

Why the lemons in the bowl –

are heavier than the thick paint,

I was lacquering onto the canvas paper.

Hours of tummy-turning anger,

Lemons; bright and yellow as fire,

My destructive talent, I hated my canvas.
Presentation evening:

I scavenge the hall quickly,

Wanting to find my painting,

It’s hanging boldly on the board.

With my friends’ golden paintings,

I point at all of theirs’,

Diverting each parent’s attention.

Anxiously wondering who notices

The painted bowl of lemons, grouped sour.
We bring the painting back home,

Exhausted I sleep, relieved it’s over.

The bowl of lemons haunts my dreams.

The next morning, I travel the house,

Irritated, I notice the bowl of lemons,

Staring down at me,

From above the giant door frame.

I could never reach it,

Stuck above the door, for anyone to see.

The painting had won, 

Against the perfectioned-mind

of an eight year old artist.

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