The Tryst of Truth and Lie

When someone asks my pastime
I tell them that I paint
They remark me lucky to have
Such a relaxing pursuit
They never applaud my work
Must think it comes easily
I think it’s rather like childbirth
No pain..No gain


On the start of picture
Tis a sort of fidgety turmoil
Confusion fusion all in a boil
Make up a start first the mind
It goes automatically
The thinking brush
Totally absorbing say transcendental



With luck comes the point
In this crazy ritual
When the painting starts talking to me
It mirrors back the topographical naked truth
Rather say emotional truth
Like scanning for the gender



Now the horrible decisions
Is it finished? If I say
More will it say too much?
Modify? Or to Simplify?
Feeling almost smug
Gone through the labour
I have produced the baby



Unfortunately it isn’t
Promising for the very long
N I've to conceive another
A short term relief
Then again frustration
The need to try again and again
An artist’s work is never done



Then why do I do it?
I’m damned if I do it
I’m more damned if I don’t
A pastime not relaxing
But exhausting n taxing
A cathartic struggle
A driving need that
Rarely brings fulfillment



Now I’ve gotta care for the baby
As it is the result of my
Ultimate efforts so
Tis a part of me n
No shrugs please.