She was my first artist,
a painter of purple pains,
peruser, abuser, and pursuer
of passionate stains,
taking my flesh canvass
and raising red welts.

As the master of other mediums
she could reduce me
to feeling more than lonely,
and disconnect this homely
child.

Till, the world
was a window that I could
never break through
and depression was
the only avenue
I ever really knew.

She was the first artist,
and taught me the craft,
but as an adult
I sit back and laugh at that
and tell the shadow of
the mother I once knew,
that I will not be taking up
the family artistry.