ArtI pour it all onto the blank page –
my best friend for several years.
What I tell the pages is unacceptable,
boundary-breaking, against the norms.
But the pages don't have prejudices
like you do, like I do, like the world does.
I couldn't tell a single soul what I tell the pages
but once it's on paper
it's art, it's poetry, it's beautiful.
Then it's out there,
disguised as something else,
something the Mr. and Mrs. can digest.
Isn't that what art is all about?
Expressing feelings you can't say out loud –
give them a concrete art form
and your innermost feelings, your dark secrets,
your memories, your curses
can all came out
and they make you famous.
Isn't that ironic?
Poetry by Lea Foverskov
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Written on 2007-06-12 at 15:21
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