Dec 2020
Stroke by stroke,
Oil glided onto the canvas.
With precision and ease,
She created her reflection.
Over time,
She grew impatient.
Gliding became stabbing.
Her reflection, distorted.
What was once graceful,
Was now forced.
Frustrated and torn,
She began to lose grip.
She turned her back on her creation.
As she walked away,
A faint cry floated towards her.
It whispered- don’t leave.
She was gone.
Stroke by stroke,
Oil glided onto the canvas.
With precision and ease,
She created another child.
Oil glided onto the canvas.
With precision and ease,
She created her reflection.
Over time,
She grew impatient.
Gliding became stabbing.
Her reflection, distorted.
What was once graceful,
Was now forced.
Frustrated and torn,
She began to lose grip.
She turned her back on her creation.
As she walked away,
A faint cry floated towards her.
It whispered- don’t leave.
She was gone.
Stroke by stroke,
Oil glided onto the canvas.
With precision and ease,
She created another child.
My mother has five children to five different men. Each child is significantly different and is told different stories about themselves. My story was “You are smart but an ugly psychopath”. This poem is my interpretation of her struggling with her identity as a mother and passing it onto her children who are symbolised as paintings.
