Mid morning sunshine pours past curtain's film,

Bare feet gently step into artist's realm,

Where old unwashed teacups are scattered around,

And the papers and paints of her projects surround.

Long hair pulled back into a loose braid,

Pale pink shirt long ago did fade,

Above a homemade skirt flowing down from its frame,

And painted red toenails lead each step without shame.

Supplies are unpacked from each ones place,

Buttons and thread, sewing machine's case,

Old wooden brushes with years of paint stained,

And cloudy jars full of water, long ago attained.

One picture in mind blocks out other goals,

Hands gather up needed paints and charcoals,

To create the image that's deeply ingrained,

And put it down rightly just as its pertained.

Canvas spread out on the hard, cold floor,

Object in hand over artwork does soar,

Creating a wonder first seen in a dream,

And now it is living, giving off it's gleam.

Hours fly by without even a glance,

Composer continues soloists dance,

While under her fingers forms a kind of hope,

And gradually it slows, reached the end of it's rope.

Eyes are locked on their masterpiece finished,

Heat inside knows the fires diminished,

What drove the soul on has now been put out,

And the artist sits back, her mind without doubt.

Work is left on the ground to wait,

Break is required after flurry abates,

For the artist is exhausted from forth put passion,

And rest is executed in perfected fashion.

The poem and photos are by me. Sadly, these are not of my bedroom, (I wish they were!) they are from my friend Lauren's room, which also inspired this poem.

Love, Clara