My friends ask me why, I no longer take time,
to take pencil in hand, to draw what’s in my mind,
or to put it on canvas, with paintbrush in hand,
though I’ve tried to explain, they just don’t understand.

So I simply reply, “I now paint on a screen,
or I paint on computer, with words and a theme,
and I use what’s inside me, to bring words to life”.
with a spectrum of colors, they are just as precise.

Their only reply is, “But you are far too good!”
You can’t put your art down!  If only I could…”
Still they can’t understand, nor could I in their place,
that the freshness of art, has since gone with no trace.

To make art with pastel, no longer conveys,
what I felt was important, what I wanted to say.
I no longer enjoy, art’s gestation and birth,
it no longer brings joy, only pain for its worth.

But the pen gives us strength, just as mighty as all
of the art that we see, on the gallery walls.
Each image on paper, with the picture complete,
is boundlessly infinite; each image unique.

There may come a time, when I’ll take up my brush,
to paint what I see, to the canvas I’ll touch.
But for now, I’m contented, to write how I feel,
to paint with my writing, and to share all I see.