I wish it didn’t have to be like that.

At least for the purposes of creating art,

A comfortable childhood is unsatisfactory.

But mine was, it seems just that, and

After having just reviewed a stack of

Old photographs I come away with the

Impression that I was a much loved, happy

Child.  Now how to account for my miserable

Adulthood?  I have to blame it on something,

Don’t I?