An artist's hands are never clean.
A smudge of black, a splash of green...
Worn and scarred, they present
to life and hard work, a testament.
Calloused & bent, yet skilled in their craft,
from holding a pen or a brush by the shaft.
Stained with paint or ink or charcoal,
an Artist's hands are the tools of his soul.
Feb 27, 2020
Feb 27, 2020 at 4:21 PM UTC
An artist's hands are never clean.
A smudge of black, a splash of green...
Worn and scarred, they present
to life and hard work, a testament.
Calloused & bent, yet skilled in their craft,
from holding a pen or a brush by the shaft.
Stained with paint or ink or charcoal,
an Artist's hands are the tools of his soul.
Or her soul... X'D... or whatever... this was an olllld poem that I wrote in high school.. it's in an old journal dated 03-27-01... but it was much older than that... I think it was inspired by an art teacher that I had... I can't remember... might have been straight from my imagination... X'D
