Tuesday, 2 April 2013

The Museum of Unrealised Potential

The Museum of Unrealised Potential

Parenthood is real.
The heart-string snapped at a fall,
the blood that drops to the lino
takes their stomach with it,
as scared this time, as always.

Parenthood is real.
The giggles are infectious
the shared moments of hilarity
forge a life-strong bond
in the world of the frustrated.

Parents lie.
Say they are fine
about time
no longer put aside
for them to be.

I am the Museum of Unrealised Potential.

I mourn their unwritten plays,
unborn poems,
the thoughts they never
give their brain
scope to think.

The clay stays damp and flat, here,
without the flair of bare hands
that crave it's cool touch,
an antidote to feverish
childhood cheeks.

They have a unique view of adult and child,
but instead of taking this gift
and moulding something,
something outside the relationship
of parent and child,

but detached,
they deny more beauty or ugliness
a record in the physical form
of paper and ink, tapestry
canvas or clay.

They sleep exhausted and fraught with potential.

No time to read, no time to paint, or knead,
no place to voice their own thoughts, words or needs.

Be honest.
Take time to visit
The Museum of Unrealised Potential.

Stay a while.
Surprise yourself.
Design a new life
with space to discover
what you can be too.

You haven't stopped growing,
because someone else is.

Close to you.

You don't stop knowing
who you are,
just discover more.

Lies - Prompt 2, Day 2. NaPoWriMo Sarah L Dixon

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