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melissa-meagherPoems
I have always been an artist. I have used paint, The tip of a paintbrush, The oils and The watercolors. I have mixed the yellows With the greens, Touched the canvas, Smelled the fumes. I have always been an artist. My paints, ready, In front of a new canvas, In front of you. But, the colors So foreign The strokes So heavy. The canvas, cold My fingers, shaking My vision, empty. This new painting, Blank and screaming, Frightens. It is looking at me, Boldly. And new. I am blind. With an empty hand, I look at you, Thinking, I have always been an artist. But, white, dry, and colorless You remain. And I question, Am I still the artist?
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Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 12:59 PM UTC
The Artist
I have always been an artist. I have used paint, The tip of a paintbrush, The oils and The watercolors. I have mixed the yellows With the greens, Touched the canvas, Smelled the fumes. I have always been an artist. My paints, ready, In front of a new canvas, In front of you. But, the colors So foreign The strokes So heavy. The canvas, cold My fingers, shaking My vision, empty. This new painting, Blank and screaming, Frightens. It is looking at me, Boldly. And new. I am blind. With an empty hand, I look at you, Thinking, I have always been an artist. But, white, dry, and colorless You remain. And I question, Am I still the artist?
Written by
melissa-meagher
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 12:59 PM UTC
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