the fingers rest on a dirtied page,
covered in ink.
Pencil marks across their world.
Their sight blurred for staring too long.
Looking for something they tried,
tried so desperately to put down.
they rub their eyes, the ink
staining their face
the pencil is falling to the floor.
Forgotten for the moment.
It’s not finished, not by half.
It’s filled with potential,
with a half-lived Dream.
Thoughts resound in their ears.
Do this. Do this.
Add just a little more texture here.
Make it Come Alive.
See how it moves?
Music is playing somewhere,
somewhere too far away to register.
The Senses are filled with sight and thought.
There is nothing Else.
tongue, nose, the smell of paper,
the sooty taste of the lead.
It’s something else, huh?
You put this down,
You created it.
but the ever-persistent question,
is it all you thought it would be?
Or is it more?
Did it manifest into something?
By its own design more beautiful
than your own mind can comprehend.
True artist is never what the artist sees,
it is what as the final product,
the Art has become.
Stop thinking to yourself,
and try it sometime.