An Introspection

I used to draw flowers when strong desires in me sprang,

To maneuver things to have my way.

I coddled those desires in me for they were almost definite and such promise kept me impelled.

They were scattered here, and blotched there,

However, they were outward.

Those evocative desires punctured every stub of confusion and left me aching for more display, more flowers.

Those plump, pretty flowers would pucker publicly and throb with clear pulse,

Almost loud, almost definite, almost tangible.

The flowers withered.

They wilted, uncared for.

They wilted upon strenous trials of colouring them with self-indulgence,

And not letting them breathe at their pace.

Today, a wall exists where used to be flowers; my hands no longer draw them.

In trying to paint geometric, precise, absolute figures; the imperfect, raw, sincere flowers sagged.

My hands are now entrapped, not engrossed.

I view the outcome from this distance and refuse to appreciate the brick wall, but cannot appreciate the flowers, either.

I am torn between refurbishing the wall, making it less present, less rigid and letting flowers grow in between them;

And going back to drawing the flowers, crude and unadulterated.

So, I draw a line between the two.

There are now recurrent thoughts of aversion and appraisal, contentment and contempt.

am torn.