The musty smell fills my nostrils and I am

Frustrated.

Lines don’t go where they belong and the paint won’t dry.

I love the brush like I love the paint.
Solemnly and with respect.

Smoothness rounds my movements
Shakiness fills my hands.

I want to feel how the oil feels
Powerful; purposeful.

But what remains of me is the canvas.
Blank and achingly abismal.