Fingers brush against the paper like
Musical notes flying from the strings of
Piano keys and suddenly it isn't even
Art anymore it's something more than
Charcoal dust and shadows it's the light it's
The soul on the paper and I'm wishing
That I had never stopped that passion I'm
So terrible at praying for a second chance while
Pictures form and figures merge into
Something I can't quite comprehend it isn't
Even beautiful but horribly twisting my
Stomach into nothingness because I so badly
Want to be wonderful and paint you like I
Paint words on a page and I can't I know
I can't because I've always been such a
Mediocre artist and it kills me inside outside every
Side of everything I just wish I could
Make me beautiful

I know that sometimes art can speak more
Than a thousand words ever could and my
Dilemma lies in that because everything I
Draw is nothing compared to the truths I write and
My soul longs to be the artist I once was and
Move someone's soul a little more than an inch or
At least have a dying person whisper in my
Ear that maybe I have healed them a little bit maybe
I'm not a second-rate pair of hands that has no
Magic left in them and perhaps miracles do
Occur with my pictures not my words

The piece was finished long ago and hangs in
My heart looking absolutely dull and flat and
No pride is left because I know that I am not
Anything compared to him or her or anyone all
I can do is scribble words onto paper and hope a
Little bit each day that I'm helping someone but
I think everything I do is lacking the fantasy and
Dream world I pursue it's nothing and it's
Hateful so I drop my pen into a puddle formed
From the swirled sky above my head which is
Barely hanging off my neck eyes kissing the
Ground and my soul hopelessly

Crude and broken