PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

How course the hand is that paints your portrait;

Rough strokes amending relentlessly. 

So what image enough will appease the artist

Who will never take his art as wondrous?

Such ire spatters your paint never dry,

And you wear that hatred in daylight. 

Try though you might to succeed

Those vibrant colours do bleed,

So you are always wearing your work. 

More and more you'll need to hide from sight

As each day shortens to the longest night. 

You dare not seek reprieve

When you've still yet to weave

Your own perfectly pictured portrait. 

So days are spent under your own watchful eye,

Seeing each act as a means to defy

What you'd wished for, for your own image. 

Never at rest with your own,

You'll forever atone

For the ways you are yet to be. 

So bemoan the lines that are yet to spell

A picture you feel that perfectly quells

Your thirst for a self-made else. 

But perhaps should you put down the brush

And reduce your panic to a dullened hush

That the world may right you, not your head,

And at peace you'll be with your painting.