To expel the outlines piled in my mind on paper,
With a light pencil in one hand,
And slice of rubber in the other,
I parent an impression of hope.
Therein lies the potential and the excitement;
A basic figure given the foundation of grandeur,
Amplifying in complexity before me,
With every scratch of graphite.
As it evolves, a heaviness sets in.
And I pause,
And I stop...
I've given something beautiful a half life, again,
As if it was birthed human,
With no flesh to cover its nerves,
And no breath to cry out its agony.
It remains still in my lap,
Eyes blank as ever staring, maybe, at me .
Out of humility, I tack it up on the wall,
A space shared by its many siblings.
I retreat shamefully with the promise to complete them,
Fumbling with the reality of what I do;
Playing God, I shape the husk of a soul,
And drop it when it's still brittle.
I started drawing when I was nine years old
I drew a picture of a cigarette holding my dad
I drew my friend Jimmy with his third nipple
I drew a picture of this kid Randall who had two nipples but no friends
When I was eleven I drew a comic
of this girl Michelle
stopping crime just by being pretty
she giggled in a bad way at me
but when her friends weren't looking
she squeezed my hand
and I drew a ten pictures of hands that day
I wanted to draw it so you could tell the person with the hand was smiling
without giving myself away
when I was thirteen I drew four hospital beds
and I drew each of my family members in one
and then I drew their coffins as statues
When I was sixteen
I drew Chicago
in the shape of a dollar bill
I drew love as a CD in a locked freezer
I drew God as a people-colored crayon
and Earth was the paper
when I was sixteen
I drew my nine year old self with
God in a coffin
buried with a crayon
like people are buried with crosses
I've doodled and drawn till my skin's
Smudged grey from graphite,
I've erased and erased till shavings
Covered my floor like a rug,
I've drawn and re-drawn till I think
maybe... maybe it's good enough,
Then I change it some more,
Shade a part again,
Stain my skin some more,
Re-trace lines again...
And I think this time it's just about right,
Not quite, but it's alright,
So I pick up my pencil and
When I was younger,
I wanted to be an artist.
I aspired to be someone
who made a difference,
Picaso or Vincent Van Gogh.
Someone who was remembered.
So like every little kid who has a dream,
I pursued it.
Saving up all the allowence I earned
In just 3 weeks
I had a total of $12.80.
Enough to fund the dream of a child.
I loved drawing.
From the minute I picked up my
I knew my dream was going to come true;
Even if it started with doodles...
of flowers and stick people.
So eventually I grew up and I gave up that dream
of being an artist that makes a difference.
I gave up,
because I couldn't master drawing the perfect person.
I couldn't draw
how the persons eyes shinned when they saw the love of their life,
I couldn't capture
the beauty in the young girls smile
as she ran through the field of daisys towards her father,
who was coming home from war.
I realized that you can't capture the beauty and the memories
that someone holds
with a dream and a $2.50 pencil.
I am sitting on the curb of no where..
Adults told me never hang around.
I am on the edge of meditation.
I am viewing the scenery of my fate.
I can't see the sky from the trash.
The metal-cans beating up the wind.
Oh the strains living up to impossible.
My torment shining in a dirty puddle.
This shouldn't be the price of dreams.
I see the reflection of a spectacle.
The mud needed a place to express itself.
The world needed someone to laugh at.
I hear their engines exploding with humor.
Two drawings are decaying in my lap.
This spaniel is a Blondie snarling into temper.
I bet you are glad she is just on paper.
The lion is so inviting like Samson.
Shave his beard for fun and
forget my self-esteem in question.
Paper attempts to protect him from abuse.
My dreams lost in the attic of my mind.
My dreams will be discovered someday
When I am not looking for them.