Depths, debts

What do I say

that does not offend

or irritate or annoy 

someone, anyone,

somewhere?

My brush paints

a nude, a child,

a god, a goddess,

a pile of rubbish,

torn shoes,

broken limbs

the end of hope,

which offends.

My truth, my being,

what can I say

if not my truth?

The comfort of my 

segregated life

can also offend:

what do I know 

of poverty?

I will speak

my truth, 

as I know it.

Stories of pain,

betrayal,

karmic debts, 

perhaps, that make 

no sense in just

this present life.

Love and jealousy

both abound

untrammelled 

by age and experience

Life, logic, 

a contradiction in terms

wounding the wronged

not the wrong-doer

Who am I  to judge

weakness and compulsions

as wrong doing?

And yet,

those stories sear 

my very soul, 

seeking release 

expression,

villainy and heroism

children bearing 

burdens that weigh

them down

way beyond the 

weight of learning

and school bags

and poor memories

that let us forget

the debts we must repay.....