The Artist

Wrote this a while ago, I've been toying with it ever since I first wrote it, it's been my most popular work to date.

 

No longer she draws,
her pencils lay restless on an empty easel.

The crude colour'd water,
stagnant, dust covered,
enfolds a waterlogged paintbrush
in its murky, liquid grasp.

No longer she draws.

The canvas remains blank,
as bleak as her emotion.

Piles of discarded work,
lay despair-smeared, forgotten
and ruined by her frustration.

Dried paint clogs her inspiration,
a flow once wild, now gone.

Not even a trickle from those pursed lips.

No creative course,
just a tear drop,
from eyes which once transcribed her feelings,
that now gives away her heart.

Her hands once wrought artistic means
now lay in disuse- pale by her side.

The works near finished
lays upturned and ruined.

Meant to be a self-portrait,
is now self-despair
and scrawled across her smiling face,
spidery letters, carved from pain read;

"Happiness fades away."

Reviews

[Deborah Leah Krempa]

This is a beautiful poem! Thank you for sharing. Debileah

[Luna]

I don't think I can accurately express how much I enjoyed this.

From the use of words, and imagery, to the emotion subtle coming out from the page...I love it all.

I can actually feel as she does, feel that sorrow.

What a wonderful piece.