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Why I Don't Draw

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A drawing hung crookedly
on a blank slab of empty wall.

At the age of four, I was an artist.

At four and two days,
your hand tore
it down, shaking with rage
you spat on it as I stood
hands bruised and cut
from your metal work boots.

My neck bent and cracked
when you seized my chin, dragging
my head down to stare at the work
signed in blocky, broken writing.

Only f****** draw, hissed in my ear.
You hurled me against
the cabinets, disgusted when I cried.




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sadesdd said...
Oct. 10, 2012 at 10:04 am:
This is so sad, and touching. Thank you for writing this for that boy whose dreams where crushed. I can't understand why that uncle would say something like that. All my siblings, my one brother especially are very good artists, and to think someone might have crushed their dreams and they might have not become what they are makes me sad. Again great job, one of my favorites.
 
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