Unfinished Painting

To You...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here I sit.

There I stand.

And for a long time I shall remain

in this image you've long ago depicted in your hazel brown.

 

Here she comes

There she goes.

But she won't wander far.

Do you see that tree across the street? Outside the prison she had put herself in?

That's how far her cowardly breath would wander.

 

What is this...? No. Stop. I will go far. I can.

I see the train.  I see the canoe down the stream.

They shall take me to a greener land, or a cleaner shore. With a lovelier sunset.

 

But I stayed. Not because you made me. Not because you could afford a lock and a creaking door.

 

I stayed to try to make you feel...feel anything.

I stayed so you can look at me, into my eyes. Not just pass by me.

 

I stayed and now you've snatched a paintbrush blended those amazing bright colors together. You chose the yellowish brown for my hair, the pink blush for my cheeks, the green glint in my eyes, the reddish lips, the soft pastel fingers, the blue and white frock, and the neat black shoes. But these were simply the bases. The beginning layers that inspired you. Then you made a grey depressing stroke across my face, right where my tears were frittered. You've dropped the brush from your coarse hand and left me alone on that easle. Alone and untended to and unfinished.

 

What are you doing? Am I not good enough? Do you not see me as your beautiful creation? Where are you going? Come back and guide me...please. I don't know what my name is. Choose one for me. I don't know how to talk, walk. Teach me.

 

Come closer to me, don't worry, I won't bite. I won't burn you with my forsaken glare. I'm not that cruel.

 

I shall only slice you once in one piece of your skin...then I shall slice you again in the same wound right before it dries and heals.

 

I will do it over and over and I will try to entertain myself everytime you complain to me: It stings,

 

I will hurt you,

 

so that my voice can reach you beyond the easel in that dusty chamber,

 

I will hurt you.

 

Because I love you.

Author's Note

Comment, reviews, corrections are welcome. I haven't revised this piece yet.

*Image title: The Birth of Color
*By *firestarter1988
*Link: http://firestarter1988.deviantart.com/art/the-Birth-of-Color-168542753

Reviews

[TL Boehm]

Yup. You know, for some reason - I found myself responding to this with the thought that - things we create have a way of biting us. Its hard to articulate but paintings, poetry, books we write - they all take on a life that impacts us. And sometimes its like being pecked to death by a bunch of tiny chickens.
I'm a novelist. My first novel - forty copies of my FIRST NOVEL sit dusty on my closet floor. It bites me in the same place every time I think of it.
Beyond that, I loved the "color" in this piece. It was so descriptive and so strong. Nicely done

[Rikkevi Rue]

creatively unique in that style that quite noone else entertains...your skillful strokes employ a different kind of brush, one that draws out and crystalizes usually hidde emotions

[Dante Balsote]

The thoughts are quite twisted for a still life. :O

[.shalynn.009.]

this was quite beautiful and different than most of what I have read before on this entire site. The metaphor was beautifully done, and I love that htere was no set structure to the poem, with stanzas made up of one lines, or two, and then whole paragraphs. At one point in the description of the painting of the speaker, it became a little like a listing of details, and I htought you could go further with the colors. Like instead of green, use jade. It would go more witht hte fact that this is a painting, made by paints with specific names. But the part about the speaker's tears was great. The whole peom was actually pretty great.

I liked the two repetitions of "I will hurt you" because two represents duality in literature. This works well with the fact that the speaker hurts the artist because s/he loves him/her. I also like that the specifics aren't said, so this could be from a child to a parent, a woman to her lover, or a human to god.

I especially like the part about the speaker not having a name. Names mean so much. People who had stillborns in the middle ages used to give them names so that they would be allowed into heaven, and this is what I thought of when I read that, though I'm not at all religious.

Anyways, I really liked your poem adn all of my suggeestions are just that: suggestions. Do what you feel is right. And thanks for having me read this. It was wonderful. And I'm sorry it took so long for me to get to reading it. Lots of RR and i keep losing my internet halfway through the month. I promise I haven's been ignoring you.

[Lucid Smile]

This made me think about how when you find the one you truly love, and you watch them walk out the door, they always take something with them, its the rest of your heart, this was splended i liked this a butt laod its beautiful

[An owl on the moon]

The dance of words in colored fire reach deep into existence and life's edge of dark and light... Not sure of the fullness of the meanings, but the title and text made me realize we are all unfinished works of art...

[Angela Mulley]

This is a great piece. Well written!

[Mauricio Montoya]

Poetry is an art and with these words you’ve displayed that.
Great job.

[Calypso]

Very beautiful. I have bunches of unfinished paintings, but I don't have the energy to finish them.

[Marie Harrison]

Very beautiful. I truly enjoyed.