Let me sketch you

With words

I will frame

Your body

With descriptions

Of the way

I view you

Ignore all the definitions

The world

Placed on your shoulders

Recreate a language

Using your name

As the beginning

So you can relish

The sound of every letter

Learn to adore

The sound of every vowel

Then maybe your reflection

Will become more within your eyes

Kept working
Sweating and renewing
And carefully weaving
My thoughts through the world
And I realise
That I didn't like it.

Frustrating
Venting and pounding
Failed art
Broken heart
All cleared away
Click
Delete.

And that's some space
For another tone, a face
Start afresh the next day.

Each stroke of my charcoal pencil,
Scraping against paper,
Scratched out yet another scar
Masking my feelings
As they bled on paper-
Black rivers running scarlet,
And locked it there,
A dam brimming
Unleashed,
Wiped off, in a brave
Attempt to never
Be uncovered again,
Sunken
Under alluvium.

Nipped the brush, picked the paint, let the canvas fill
Oh my crush, like a saint, keep your head still
Let me first, draw the sketch, what a cute face!
Body next, let me fetch, lovely gaze and grace
Lines are made, streaks of color, your portrait is good
Bit of shade, made it duller, a monkey in woods.

“Taking photos is not allowed here”,
said the caretaker.
I, at first thought,
“I'm not a traitor”
.
I move ahead and observe the event.
Things appear like there is a revenant.
Not even a single picture,
but I was printing better than the 3D- printer.
.
I can make as lively a sketch,
as it comes out of the white;
but the same feeling I cannot transfer,
unless the recipient sees the outline.
.
I can talk to you on a video call,
but you know it right?
The increase in one dimension,
affects my sight.
.
We are taking photos of important events;
but we try to ignore the bad clicks.
We are using our eyes to see the bad,
but our camera to see the sketch.
.
But deep down we understand that
we can develop the camera;
but not sensitivity.
The picture always looks better in reality,
than in the gallery.
.
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A ghost of a house is a blueprint
A soul of a blueprint is a sketch
A sketch's spirit is in vision
And lemme tell you, your vision's quite a stretch

Prose, a photo
Poetry, pencil sketch,
                                       in five lines.

We see not with eyes but heart
We hear not with ears but heart
We think not with mind but heart
                                                           ­   Helen Keller,
                                                                                      wise beyond sight.

And we feel not with heart but in the guts.

I try not to write about you

But whenever these hands get hold of a pen

They start sketching your beauty and flaws

i draw you but i cant draw

i draw you, but its rough

i draw my estimations

erase. draw. erase.

you're still here. erase. you're still here.

i draw you and tear up the paper

there you are, in the distance

i draw back a bow

and see the lead smudge across your chest

I ****** the stage with silence so the audience anticipates the articulation of words that soon spill out of my mouth.

The show lights blind my eyes so all I can see are headless ghosts sitting in rows, neatly compact in a spiritual communion.

My mind stutters, body shudders, yet the line is plain to see as it was painted on my lips - ready to perform, ready to be spoken.

Narration courses through my lungs to produce cornered speech, creating an introductory-zone for the others to encroach behind me

And there we were, separated into our own character beams while I stood with shallow confidence at the forefront.

Though I'm not a main lead,
or a side character,
or a set piece,
I am the narrator.
I carry the weight of the story,
And I carry the ears of those who listen.