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I can't find my mascara or the ir-
on to ease the creases from my jumper.
The girl with golden hair waits; I wonder
as she crowns my head with flowers, tucks them
high behind my ears. My skin blushes
in thanks to the sun as we defrost
our bellies with black tea and french toast.
I see a man, his feet bare and his ru-
ined jeans rolled up to the knee. I find the
sand between his toes and the salt on his
lips; he sees more than I would usually
allow. I cross my fingers tight, hopeful
he missed it, but I feel his grasp behind
my eyes, catching sight of the bruises.
Its not easy to be an artists parent,
it needs much more than patience.

An artist is a mass of amorphous air,
that needs understanding and care.

An artists parent who knows that,
becomes a saviour and confidente.

An artists parent who knows that not,
is doomed to a relationship as bare and draught.

Its not easy to be an artists parent,
its needs quiet deliberance.
Of when to push their creative child,
and when to let them be.
Of when their child needs inspiration,
or has a burst of creativity.

An artists parent is observant,
of the ups and downs that the creative faces.
Or when its tired of fighting the world,
and needs tender embraces.

An artists parent has full faith,
even when the artist is lost.
Because that is when the artist looks for anchors,
when his gaseos state finds it not.

Is it easy being a parent to any other?
An engineer or a doctor maybe?
Why? because he follows an age old path,
that was set for him when he was three?

Did you know that an artist is wild,
and has the ability to accept?
To look at you with unjudging eyes,
and understand you to his best.

Like everyone he has two sides,
unlike others he accepts both.
This gives him power,
to create a miracles on the move.

He his sensitive to emotions,
and can feel the mood.
His own and others around.

He knows what you mean,
when you say you feel alone,
because he has known it all life long.
[Inspired after a travelling conversation with a corporate power man. ]

He did not understand his artist daughter,
called insolent and defiant.

This made me angry, but i understood.
then patiently explained to him the points in this poem.

I dont know where he is now or if he heard a word I said.
But I explained all this to him with an honest heart,
and he complemented me on this....
Why is it so much more difficult to write
When I'm told to?
There are far too many things which need to be done, and they are no closer to being done, not one bit. The dishes downstairs lay stacked upon the work surface in the kitchen, crumbs gather on the floor and dust accumulates on the carpet which has not been walked on by a foot other than my own in almost 3 weeks. The windows need cleaning as the sunlight can no longer find its way into the room I currently seek my refuge in, and it is a pitiful thing to have to watch as the sun clambers desperately in an attempt to claw it's way through to me. The notebooks littering my desk are all but half-full, with its paper coffee stained as mugs of rotting liquid gather beside them, one by one. There is a rather distinct stink of mouldering books, as my taste for fine reading has become belittled and seemingly extinct as of these recent days.

There are far too many things which need to be done, such as clambering my way out of this hell-hole and seeking a refuge in something other than the room in which I have imprisoned myself in. There are far too many things which need to be done, in terms of escaping and finding a way to crawl to you, even though you reside in a place which is out of my reach.

— The End —