I want to paint- the sirens wailing like a baby on a cold night, the butterflies in my stomach flying around making me worry and the smell of acrid smoke building up in my lungs.
I want to paint- the sound of bombs dropping like the heart in my chest, the broken buildings burning but still standing proud like the allie soldiers and the dust and cement tickling my throat.
I want to paint- the spitfire engines rattling and crying of tiredness, the sound of people shouting for help as a bomb drops nearby them and the black skies wishing for the night to end.
I want to paint- the roof of the Anderson shelter protecting me from what is outside.
I want to paint- the feeling of my own, warm cozy bed.
I want to paint the end of this war.