A Life Out Of Mind

When I was about seven or eight
I wanted to write and paint-
at home, rather than in school,
where it was done by rote.
I asked for the materials
to do just that. I had grand
ideas about self expression.

The paper offered left me
no room to write, and would
never be allowed to dispose of it
the way it had been disposed on me.

The gift of a painting book
engaged me at first sight,
until I saw the thick black lines
that outlined all the characters
from Dickensian melodramas,
lines which confined my errors
and dictated my choice of colour,
as I shaded in the blocks within the lines.

The book drained Dickens' characters
of all life, including any danger.
Feeling watched as I coloured in,
took the life out of my mind.
The black lines trapped me,
as if what I saw in my head,
distant landscapes, I could not draw
the lines were prison bars that had me.

I gave up. 

As long as I seemed more grateful
than passive to those who watched me
I thought 'That is fine.'.

Creativity always had to lose to manufacturing.