I can't figure out what to do with the blank white walls in my house.
Downstairs, upstairs, in the living room, bedroom.
A blank mind as I write this poem,
Why am I writing? Nobody knows.
Not even me.
I like the smell of a fresh paint can when it's opened—vision, passion, hope.
A creative mind open wide.
But then it's closed. Too soon so fast.
Just like that. And a dream is gone.
But was it ever alive?
Being alive is being free.
Not being told your free, but knowing it.
Believing it, living it.
What is freedom?
Freedom is opening a can of paint and staring at a big blank wall.
The wall is white, and quiet.
The wall is timid and unsure and there.
But you are bold, bold in heart.
Full of possibility, taking action.
And you don't fear.
You are you.
And you LOVE you.
Freedom.
About the Creator
Kar Mama
Twenty two year old fierce mama raising a little boy to be a great man. Wife to my Redheaded Russian. Lover of the Most High. I like to write, I like to eat, I like to laugh. Coffee, always. Thriving off of deep relationships.
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