Author: Silent Voice
My brushes are dry, and canvas worn,
waiting to be never hung.
In the world of an artist,
we have but each day to transform an empty shell into the heavens we see.
But when the cold hard cell of reality closes in,
then our heavens turn into the hellish reality that we are all fakes.
I fear that I lack the convictions that once separated me from the rest,
leaving me with only the doubts that swim in my head.
I feel my sanity is being tested by how long I can stand without falling over.
I seem to find ways to not paint as if it was the plague.
I prepare this and that and even rearrange
hoping for that instant when it all comes together,
but it is all for not.
I stare into each canvas looking for answers
but only finding the lines of the fabric staring back at me.
It is as if the surface is longing to be touched,
to be caressed by the hairs on the end of a brush,
to be transformed from this bland existence
to that of a vibrant object
in which people can fall in love with.
Comments on this poem/writing:
|Tarna (22.214.171.124) -- Monday, July 26 2004, 10:17 am|
I understand this one totally though not a painter I have a guitar that sits and stares at me almost with a longing that I pick it up and pluck it's strings bringing the sound to the surface. Yet I deny it. It's as if I give in I am admitting I am sad since it always gave comfort in sad times. That by creating something beautiful I am admitting my lack... So instead I choose to deny and hide from what really is...
awesome read... I really loved how this one I could have so much in common with
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