A blank canvas stares right through me
No colors on my palette
None splattered on my apron
What has become of the beautiful brush strokes I once used to draw?
All my eyes gaze upon are smeared zigzags and uneven lines
There were instances where I could sketch every inch of your face and draw every corner of your heart with colors borrowed from a sunset
Now I cannot bring myself to map out the dimples on your cheek nor can I doodle the sparkles in your eyes
Guess what I can do?
Nothing because I am an artist
Lost without her muse
- J.Q
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
A blank canvas stares right through me
No colors on my palette
None splattered on my apron
What has become of the beautiful brush strokes I once used to draw?
All my eyes gaze upon are smeared zigzags and uneven lines
There were instances where I could sketch every inch of your face and draw every corner of your heart with colors borrowed from a sunset
Now I cannot bring myself to map out the dimples on your cheek nor can I doodle the sparkles in your eyes
Guess what I can do?
Nothing because I am an artist
Lost without her muse
- J.Q
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