In English class we are supposed to make a 6-word version of our own "portrait", just as a little exercise and reflection after reading James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.
I'm not feeling too particularly happy at the moment. That is a blatant understatement.
I feel inspired, though, as all tortured artists must be. It turned into more of a 6 line at a time poem.
Heartstrings pulled her until she choked.
She thought she could handle the hurt.
She leaves us with art unfinished.
The moon will be alone tonight.
They always feed on her heart.
But I can't say that in English class. I'll probably say something like:
5 foot tall bottle of sunshine!
I only make pies and enemies.
At last, she slipped and fell.