Poetry

Not An Artist

To illustrate a lady
weeping through a canvas
with sorrow on her eyes
and her heart on the ground.

To draw the man I saw
on the cafe last Thursday
with his lovely profile
and the rare fashion style.

To sketch the judgments
of my unintelligent mind
along with the frail soul
in a body that will expire.

To paint those feelings
indefinable and abstract
with colors you will desire
and emotions that can fly.

To leave you hanging
on a room filled with aliens
gazing into my grand works
while realizing you never tried.

This is in response to the Daily Post’s writing prompt Practice Makes Perfect?.

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