The painters son(Liam’s Poem)

      The Painter’s Son

His soft fluid motion

drawing me in, with his paradoxical movements.

This surreal moment will stay with me

for an eternity.

My heavy head

struggling to move with

His

Nimble hands,

and his impeccable form wrapping me in. His soul is captured in this,

only this.

I can hear his heavy breath, rapidly increasing.

His head swiftly turning,

breaking me out of this hazy trance.

My gaze turns to a pot on the sun lit windowsill. I don’t look back,

petrified that I will fall back in.

 

 

I actually wrote a few poems before this one, just trying to find my barrings. At first I was using crazy language and not even writing full sentences. I felt like I was starting over. I didn’t know if I was even aloud to write about something that wasn’t a natural disaster. I ended up looking at some poems which gave me inspiration to write this one. I wrote about painting because it can sometimes be very discrete even when the painting is write in front of you. Painting are like that, but for some reason they make perfect sense. I thought that if I wrote this poem about a painting I could do the same thing. I hope that when reading this poem people will interpreter the painting in so many different ways. I think that that is what poetry is about, all different kinds of interpretations.