Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Apr 2017
There's something about
opening a bottle of colour -
that any way it spills
won't spell A-R-T at your hands.
let's call it the audacity of trying,
move on.

Same thing for a lump of clay -
lying in front of you,
waiting for creative violence,
but you know that your thoughts
don't have fingers,
your ideas don't have arms.
let's call it the pointlessness of wishing
move on.

Don't look at the camera -
the eager buttons waiting,
glinting in the hope of your touch
a lens waiting to be turned -
knowing that your eye can never
translate your sight into art,
your vision will never equal
an image.
let's call it the imperfection of waiting,
move on.

My last hope is a pen.
my fingers rush over it,
finding solace in known grooves
where my fingers have settled
time and again.
i call it the comfort of a story.

and this time,
*i stay
I rlly like writing stuff.
Shivani Lalan
Written by
Shivani Lalan  India
Please log in to view and add comments on poems