Facing It

She is a lost Picasso, pulled between the faces of dilemma and confusion.
Watercolour thoughts are smudged, smears of speeding dreams blurring her direction.
She drips with doubt, washed-up dregs and views of blue mind-strewn on her landscape.
She searches for identity, is caught in the dichotomy: Daddy’s girl. Street girl.
Behind her, angry women have spewed out their emotion, but have stopped to show devotion.
In front, the last reminder of a middle-class upbringing that wasn’t quite so textbook.
Barefoot and frenetic, she eradicates the symbol of the principles imparted,
but in daubed, unfinished splashes by a mind that clings to childhood is a lack of a conviction.
Her head is dragged through cobalt hearts, a throne and azure statements,
thick love spilled in creamy dreams, walls licked and slicked in lavish strokes,
ciphers scrawled, conflict clawed, merging, bound.
What is her point?
She flails in space to find her place and, frameless, waits in the divide.
Then Daddy’s at her side again to put her in the picture.