Of Paint & Poetry

A few years ago I read a collection of poetry written by disadvantaged children.

Some of them were quite good, which just goes to show that writing poetry isn't necessarily a matter of age; it's a matter of life experiences. And some 10-year-olds have seen enough tragedy to last a lifetime.

There was one in particular that stood out to me: a girl has made a mess with a bucket of paint. And so an attempt to help her mother all but precipitates an anxiety attack as she tries to clean up; not because she's afraid her mother will yell at her. But because she cannot reason how, on earth, she will ever "get all of this paint out of my mouth."

I loved that line. And I thought then, as I do now, that I understood her quite clearly. That even though I haven't lived her life or endured her tragedies, I knew (know) precisely what she meant.

And yesterday, driving home, those words popped into my head for the first time in months. And try as I might, I couldn't shake them out again.

Instead, I thought of all those moments I bit my tongue when I most needed to speak. Those times when I stared blankly at the world, my insides shaking with words.

And I imagined myself, as this girl, opening my mouth and trying — quite futilely — to clean the paint from my tongue even as it continues to flow through me.

If I were an artist: this is what I would draw.

If I could show you how I felt, this is what you would see.