Beatrice Bergman - By @BeaaaBergman

By Bea Bergman

Beatrice Bergman

I wanted to share my on going creative crises, in the hope that talking will make it go away.

So here goes, in the shape of the poem of my favourite short film by Tim Burton - Vincent

I crafted my own version out of the original, seeing as I like to say the original is more or less about me anyway.

Beatrice Bergman is six leap years old

She's always polite and does what she’s told

For a creative her age, she’s considerate and nice

But she wants to be just like Vincent Price

She doesn’t mind living with her sister and Emilia with the tats

Though she’d rather share a home with ravens and bats

There she could reflect on the horrors she’s invented

And wander dark hallways, alone and tormented

Beatrice is nice when mentors gives her information to hoard

But imagines dipping them in wax for her Pinterest board

She likes to experiment on her friend Kasperombie

In the hopes of creating a horrible copywriter-zombie

So she and her horrible copywriter-zombie Friend

Could go searching for victims in London's East end

Her thoughts, though, aren’t only of ghoulish crimes

She likes to paint and read to pass some of the times

While other creatives read books like Go, Advertising, Go!

Beatrice's favourite author is Edgar Allen Poe

One night, while reading a gruesome tale

She read a passage that made her turn pale

Such horrible news she could not survive

For her beautiful creativity had been buried alive!

She dug out the grave to make sure it was dead

Unaware the fact it was all in her head

Kasperombie sent Beatrice off to the SCA church room

She knew she’d been banished to the tower of doom

Where she was sentenced to spend the rest of her insanity

Alone with the thoughts of merciless brutality

While alone and insane encased in her tomb

Marc Lewis burst suddenly into the room

He said: “If you want to, you can go out and play

It’s sunny outside, and a beautiful day”

Beatrice tried to talk, but she just couldn’t speak

The years of isolation had made her quite weak

So she took out some paper and scrawled with a pen:

“I am possessed by this room, and can never leave it again”

Marc Lewis said: “You’re not possessed, and you’re not almost dead

These games that you play are all in your head

You’re not Vincent Price, you’re a Swedish native

You’re not tormented or insane, you’re just a lost creative

You’re six leap years old and you really need some sun

I want you to get outside and have some real creative fun.

His anger now spent, he walked out through the hall

And while Beatrice backed slowly against the wall

The room started to swell, to shiver and creak

Her horrid insanity had reached its peak

She saw Kasperombie, her copywriter-zombie slave

And heard her creativity call from beyond the grave

It spoke from its coffin and made ghoulish demands

While, through cracking walls, reached skeleton hands

Every idea in her life that had crept through her dreams

Swept her mad laughter to terrified screams!

To escape the madness, she reached for the door

But fell limp and lifeless down on the floor

Her voice was soft and very slow

As she quoted The Raven from Edgar Allen Poe:

“and my soul from out that shadow

that lies floating on the floor

shall be lifted?

Nevermore…”