Oeuvre My Life in a Painting

Oeuvre, A Poem about Life by Kaaya Faye

It was only a week ago when

The hollow burden of being alive

Started nipping at my heart

And like every other restless man

I chose to listen to its mindless harp.


My life was a painted canvas,

I wish it was empty so I could repaint it

But it was painted and badly.

Awful color choices made the worst palette

And the design looked ghastly.


What an oeuvre!”, I was horrified.

If I were an artist and critic at the same time

I would tear the canvas in concrete abomination.

Wash it under a tap

And blot it beyond recognition.

But, it wasn’t a canvas after all

Instead, my life.

Disgusting, nasty piece of art, a farce

Mine, nonetheless, whatever it may be

A friend or a pain in my arse.


Tediously I blotched every color

Every aspect of my life

Reimagined every corner, every edge

Of the canvas, but all made it

Look as useless as unmowed sedge.


Huh!”, I snorted

What a piece of trash!”

I said as life felt like a never-ending DIY project.

With parts missing and equipment damaged

A pile of shit I wanted to reject.


So, casually I showed my back to the canvas

And walked away from it.

I whistled my favorite song

Sauntered through my favorite streets

Smiled, waved, jumped, danced all along.


What freedom I felt

Now that my life was left behind

In some isolated studio far away in the town.

My heart felt as light as a circus

That got rid of a depressing clown.


I spent the day having fun

Until, I reached home and there it was

My canvas, my life, my oeuvre, my art

“You forgot it at ours” smiled my friend

Ripping my happiness every bit apart.


I looked into the painting, it looked back into me

And I barged out of the house

Into a stationery across the street.

I bought the finest, fanciest brush

And the costliest paint for it to eat.


There, I have repainted it with fresh colors

I felt satisfied as I sniffed the scent of wet paint.

The smell was weird and I could have passed out,

But, like a valour I stood with my hands on the waist

Eyes closed, and chest puffed like a stout.


When I opened my eyes to have a final look

I was deeply satisfied with what was before me.

A paper, my life, sweeped in all shades.

Dark, monochromatic, pitch black

A piece of art that I made.


Now, now, now.” I gleed.

As I cleaned the brushes and capped color bottles.

An empty canvas like a blank day

With lots in the past but always a choice

To repaint or replay.


I stretched my arms and sighed deeply

Drowsy and tired, I crashed on the bed.

My heart still harped but not so loud

I switched off the lights and closed my eyes

Sleep engulfed and I dreamt of grasslands, unmowed.



Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash.

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