For as long as I can remember,
I’ve wanted to be an artist.
But nothing set that deep set part of me alight
Nothing fanned the flame,
Only fed frustrations in beginner attempts.
All failed efforts leading to a realization
Of a different artistic strength.
I cannot draw.
So I sketch with words.
Rhythm my paints,
Word choice my hues.
I outline with nouns
Shade with adjectives
And sculpt fine details with prepositions.
Syntax my charcoal
I illustrate the scene before me.
Like clay spinning beneath my fingers
Written word flows from my hands.
Finding that sweet spot at perfect center,
My fingers dive in,
Moulding and shaping, confident with purpose,
Until my foot releases the pedal,
Until my charcoal lifts from the final stroke,
Until my brush dries,
And I step back
To drink in the wholeness
Of my completed work.
And as I consume my final piece,
I know in that deep set part of me,
Set ablaze with a passion for written art,