Beatrice Bergman – By @BeaaaBergman

Bea Bergman

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? 

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