Picasso

I sit in my room packed full of my stuff
my treasures
my memories
my words
my addictions
my desires
my unfinished
my books (owned and borrowed)
my very being

and I reflect on all the good I have done
and I regret all the bad I have done

I feel proud of my accomplishments
tactful agility of my words
confident in my thoughts,
I embrace my emotions
I rely on my perceptions

proud of my kids and their accomplishments

Tears of pure humbleness fill my eyes when they say, "I did not know what to do,....and I asked myself, what would You do"

After so many years of marriage, we are still symbiotic catalysts for each other,
Happy,
such a simple word, but so very real for us.

and with all that is good in my life,
there is this haunting
this, this,.. this, THING that taunts me
that stalks me
and I know I'm not the only one.

I and others are compelled to its control
Those not afflicted, think my actions are just on the other side of insanity.

If it does not get its required attentions, evil is unleashed in many many forms.

I have friends, that are mesmerizer by it, like a moth at night-to-a-light turned on inside a house, hitting up against a window again, and again, and again and again, trying desperately to get to the light, but just doesn't understand that they can't ever really get to it.

The light mocks their attempts to be satisfied, as does the THING.

It aggravates us.

This thing can be satisfied, as water prevents dehydration and death, but only if you drink every three days.

and on that third day without it we feel
anxious
tense
depressed
suicidal
selfish

selfish that is the greatest irony of this thing, it is most selfish,
it demands attention
it is never satisfied
it is never happy
it is always longing for more
it is cold and heartless


the musician knows it
the painter knows it
the sculptor has his own version
and the writer knows it

the insidious thing, to the outsider is nothing it is blank, null, void, meaningless

and that is an even greater irony than its selfishness, what appears to be nothing is actually to the select few, a taunting insanity can never fully be satisfied, once filled it magically becomes empty again and needs to be filled once more.

this

THING

is

a blank piece of paper,

an empty canvas,

a stone not yet brought to life,

and as soon as life is breathed into it, there is another

blank piece of paper,

empty canvas or

stone , calling, taunting demanding to be brought to life

and once it has life there is another

poem to write

painting to paint

sculpture to break free from the rocks.

p.s.

I call this Picasso, because at the Picasso Exhibit there was one of his paintings;

it was of a room full of color and paintings and curtains, and just off center of the room

on an easel

was a blank canvas

calling

haunting

demanding to be filled