The Art of Art
Looking upon the white void before me
An infinite field of endless possibility
A blank slate to build any kind of world of my desire
I run my hand over the blank sheet of paper that makes me feel free
The smooth, sharp, scratch of a pencil on paper
The graphite smoothly gliding as it tapers
The soft lines slowly taking shape
Imitating whatever I wish to pull from nature
The smell of ink or paint as it spreads my way
The rough texture of charcoal,
I manipulate them to express what I wish to say
And finally, chaos delves into a sense of control.
This poem is about:
Poetry Terms Demonstrated:
Login or register to post a comment.