Painted.

I stand at the canvas, brush in hand.

I hope to create something grand.

I start the first stroke, the colors bright,

My hand controls the brush, my muscles are tight.

I go through a process of trial and error.

I wonder if my work could be fairer.

I look at the art piece, what I found  unappealing.

But to everyone else, this is not what they're feeling.

They think my painting is grand, they think it is great,

I look at my artwork, deciding its fate.

Author's Note

I wrote this poem because I just got done painting a picture. Quite frankly, I think the painting is horrible. So here goes, enjoy.

Reviews

[lynne]

Very nice work :) it has a wonderfull flow to it :) Great job :)