The pen
Once so fluid in my artist's hand
Stands stiffly at odds with my supple knowing fingers
Refusing to comply with my dreams
No soft and flowing lines of my imagination
Where have they gone?
I suppose that simple colors are not of me
No shading and shadowing and simple clean strokes
To break the barriers of my thoughts
Words will have to suffice
To describe the picture I cannot draw
They will be long and winding
An effort rough at times
A plea, a gasping breath for you to understand
And though they are not a picture
Please stay and listen to my words.