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.