Since birth, I have always been painting my life in black and grey, never straying far from those colours.
Having my hand slapped if it trails yearningly towards the dazzling brilliance of azure or sweet, alluring bliss of amber or the wild, ragged shades of emerald.
Being scolded if I decide to use a softer brush, one that’ll soothened the rough edges of the scenery that I’ve built over the years.
In constant submission to the use of a brittle canvas that ruined any image I attempted to create, no matter how much love and tears I poured in to it
No matter how much time or energy or enthusiasm I showered around it, no matter how much life I blew into- it wouldn’t blaze.
Being pushed off my stool and having someone else paint my artwork whilst I sit chained tight, watching with silent screams as they savagely taint my world with hate and distaste.
Not a say, not a word could I speak.
I gaze in raw disbelief, in blinding despair, my body spasming in despair as they wildly run the brush up and down in all directions instead of one.
What happened to the gentle, soft strokes I tried to familiarise my portrait with?
What happened to me?
My heart shattering as they carelessly spill colours over the lines that I had carefully drawn with heartaching precision.
All my life I had had painted my universe with the same brush, same canvas, same colours, same landscape, same scenery.
I have allowed anyone and everyone to pick up my brush and destroy my serenity.
The pictures I paint are not painted by me, rather I’m just a puppet being controlled by the manipulative people that I am surrounded by.
I paint with my eyes shut tight not seeing the world as I should be.
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