The coloured bottle of acrylic or oil it maybe
Helps me overcome the whites & greys of melancholy

The brush speaks the language that I wish it to
It is the disciple that has followed my instructions hitherto

The canvas is my playground, blank and vast
It is the ‘tabula rasa’, on which my shadow I can cast

The figure is nothing but a pattern I sketch
Dots, lines or curves, it is what I elect

No doubt the painting speaks the language of the heart
Whether from centre or boundaries it does start

The colours provide the unconscious with the exit path
On canvas they express the emotions unheard

The mind that is stressed finds some peace
Helps decipher the relevance of thoughts with ease

The gratification of impulse is all I need
Let the outburst be expressed productively

For it is in the shape, colour and form I create
That the confusion and disharmony terminate

It is in the hues of the figure I paint
That the choices of my life I make

For it is in deciding what to paint
That I discover the verdict of my fate!