Years and years of page after
page,
sscratching, smudging, flicking the pen
putting off disappointment...
nothing looks like how it looks in my head.
Poor world, poor me.
Suddenly I look down
at my hands on the page,
My hands did it for my head,
not really, my head merely agrees and possesses the
arrogance to think
itself in charge.
Charcoal resembling my
insides, finally there on
the outside.
Fruit fly lands on the
fruits of my hearty hands.
Both drunk on wine but
unprepared I flatten in
on the page,
poor world, poor fly...
My perfect picture,
punctuated with the smudge
of life.