I am a Renaissance man,
Oh wait, that mustn’t be.
I must have different parts to be of that entity.
I must never open a book, for that would be heresy.
“Don’t try to paint for it will taint your white facade” they scream.
Yes, I do a little poetry,
I can string some steps together if I’d like.
I’ve even written a few stories,
But I had to change my name to Cory to get them past the pit.
Once and a while the Inquisition rolls by,
And every time I wonder what they’ll find.
Hopefully they won’t see the theories of the Sun,
Hiding under my Bible’s tongue,
That’s why I cover it with a rug.
Women should sing,
Women should sew,
And that’s all women really need to know.
At least the men think so.
Oh, and we have to marry them too.
But, how can I stick to my loom,
When there are so many things I can learn to do?
Why is it that all the boys can play,
And I have to thread wool to pull my weight?
I sure know how to paint,
I can show you, but it will take me a minute,
Because all my painting are wrapped in linen,
And shoved in cold, capped jars.
Right now I can’t remember where they are,
But I know they are somewhere far.
You see, nobody can catch me with my art,
For there will be no recognition on my part,
So, I can never leave my soul ajar,
Like my paintings sealed in those jars.
especially not the men,
How it feels to be