I sit on paper lying down,

wishing for a golden frame.

Wish the absent hand that formed me

had more skill or more ambition.

What my lazy swirls could be

is haunting as two empty eyes;

at times I sense my maker’s will

and feel her reach through me for more...

But more won’t come and here I sigh,

the unsuccessful, disenchanting ... ;

Silent tears leak through my form -

is Fate always so cruel?

Oh, the care with which she draws me!

Surely that should be enough!

But art has meaning, I have none,

and notebook-bound will I remain.

Here I sit, so numbly staring,

blankness spreading everywhere;

I wish for magic to release me,

Doodle with my painful dream.

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Author guidance for This poem

Oh dear, I feel a little like I'm betraying my fellow poets in writing this. Don't get me wrong, I love words and imagery, and I love creating stories and expressing myself with the English language.... but there's a slight desire in me to ... well, to be able to draw. :L

updated Aug 8 '11 by Tianna