Subconscious Man On Strings

I drew a picture of a puppet, and then I wrote this poem.

New paper with pencil dug deep

New paper, lines etched into the fibers

 

Pictures telling me the details of the mind behind these almond eyes.

the batting of my eyelashes in shadows on my drawings when the lights are dim.

A vision of myself glancing back from the page.

A version springing up with every stroke

 

Sharpening my weapon brings smudges at my finger tips as I glide my worn hands across bound leather, pressed years before and smelling of dust.

as each moment passes a new detail is jotted down on a page along with lilacs and breasts, flames from fire places and cottonwood trees filled with dancing humming birds.

One day maybe, someday soon. Someone will sit back in a rocking chair on their front porch with fine china filled with rosemary leaves and smile. Smile because they've seen something breathtaking and it was something seen through my eyes.

Reviews

[Mr. Lopez]

This is so very well written. A pleasure to read. As a pencil artist I can relate well to your words of creation. I see in you an artist in many forms. I liked this one a lot.

[Legion]

We are all subconcious man (or woman) on strings brought to life by those that helped to sculpt and write us into what we are. Parents. Teachers. Friends. Enemies. A good write. Your imagery leaves nothing to be desired. It is very visual and crafted well. Kudos to you.