On a drive between two small towns on the western slope of Colorado, I stopped and snapped a picture of some sunflowers overlooking a beautiful, expansive view. When I got home and enlarged the photo on my computer, I noticed telephone lines right across my “work of art”. I looked at it again, today, and words started popping into my head about how artists so often feel a need to get something perfect. And it occurred to me that the so-called “perfect” is staying inside the lines. I’m not sure that’s a problem. Are you?
Inside The Lines
Inside the lines the grass is greener.
Outside the box the air is cleaner.
Some days your life runs like a river.
Some nights you only quake and quiver.
And then the sun begins to shine,
And then you draw another line,
And then the box becomes a place to store your things.
And then the flowers start to grow,
And the your words begin to flow,
And then you’re glad to join in when the whole world sings.
Inside the lines the route is shorter.
Outside the box there’s no recorder.
Some days your view is from the summit.
Some nights your dreams will let you plummet.
And then the sun begins to shine,
And then you draw another line,
And then the box becomes a place to store your things.
And then the flowers start to grow,
And the your words begin to flow,
And then you’re glad to join in when the whole world sings. © 2014
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