Botticelli

Standing at a crossroads, why do I have to choose when Botticelli painted both the Madonna and Child and The Birth of Venus? I say I don't write for the purist, so why can't I create my real emotions—mental art—without fear of repercussions? What was going through your mind, Botticelli, when you painted for both Pagans and Catholics? Should I keep my work neat and pure, the cute shit that’s suitable for a bland palate, or can I give you tears and pain, profanity intertwined with the confession of sin?  
   
When I was a child, I learned not to share my dreams or thoughts because it landed me in front of a psychologist. I thought as an adult, in a world more accepting, it would be different. But there are still people uncomfortable telling me to sanitize my work. Isn't that what poetry is meant to do—elicit more than just love and self-reflection?  
   
I want to write about the past, the trauma that twists your stomach and turns your gaze, but I’m told it’s too much for readers who can’t comprehend the morbid. So, I sit, stripping out the offense so church folks can read it without casting stones of judgment. Do I stay true to myself?  
   
It reminds me of when I was fifteen, entering my first poetry contest. They shortened my poem and handed me second place. Out of frustration, I sent the certificate to my grandparents and refused to read the published book with my work in it.  
   
I guess we can’t all have it like Botticelli. So, I stand at the crossroads, knowing the path I choose will only bring me misery—just another person in the church choir with a fake smile. Wrestling with authenticy versus acceptance.  
   
NP