I wrote Childhood Memories recently for my creative writing class. Every image in this poem is inspired by true events. The messaging I'm trying to convey in this poem is how everyone is born with a creative mind, but it is the adults in our lives that either nourish that creativity or shut it down. My parents could have easily punished me for the "art" I made, but instead they chose not to. Because of this I felt free to express myself through art. It is important that everyone has that same opportunity.
Quietly, I rambled
through bathroom drawers and make-up bags
left on the counter, looking
for the instrument that would
create my next masterpiece.
Even at the age of 4, I knew I was an artist,
and I was too cute to be stopped.
Ceilings, tables, lamps,
anything could be my next canvas.
I imagine the pink blob
still on the ceiling
where my mom desperately tried
to wash away the lipstick flower
I drew while standing on the top bunk.
When my sister turned on her lamp
at night, the room was flooded with stars and butterflies
from when I made her lampshade
my newest work of art.
While setting the table
for dinner, my brother placed
the plate over the smiley face
I had carved into the wood earlier that day.
As I enter my childhood home,
I trace my fingers along
the decade old crayon lines.
The once royal blue
and bright yellow lines
were now faded to gray.
They served as a map
from the front door to my old bedroom.
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