A Pencil on my Shoulder

Like a sword in my hand

a paintbrush glimmers with red, 

ready to squander the acrylic dragon.

A canvas lay flat before me.

My brain oozes with paint as it pumps through my veins,

it slowly seeps to my fingers and drips onto the linen board,

a masterpiece waiting patiently.

Who is art, and what does it want with me?


Numbers blur to splatters, 

faces line with pencil marks,

trees melt to a foggy watercolor and roads merdge to charcoal.

My vision becomes pastel.

Soft hands over each eye when life fades to true colors.

A blanket over my feet when Jask Frost rings the doorbell.

A parent to me when young and a mentor to me now,

there is no room on my shoulders but for God and a pencil, 

I better get to work. 






This poem is about: 


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