August 3, 2021.
wip
Far too late.
I was the nib of my calligraphy pen
piercing the blank slate.
I knew I had to get my act together and stay straight.
It was like I was on the very last page
Of my beat up composition journal.
Too much aggression, or maybe it was
A passion that I was learning to control
Like when my eyes met the paper,
And all I saw was ink blots and drips.
Not much to show for despite my best attempts, I’ll admit.
No matter how much my actions had changed,
My mind was in the same, sad state
Like stains left on a table
Long after you clean up the mess.
I can trade one habit for another.
You can take to oil painting not long after that.
But it also takes far too long to dry
I felt just as used as an eraser.
As thin as tracing paper.
I could tell my artwork was starting to worry too.
Its colors became monotone and dim.
The people in my paintings stopped smiling.
Anytime I tried to pick myself up
My shaky hands would try to continue.
But I would smear what has already been done.
Just constantly undoing and never able to catch up
My eyeliner was smeared charcoal.
My tears were a smoke gray watercolor
Dancing down thick cardstock.
Poetry by aidan haskel
Read 278 times
Written on 2021-08-03 at 12:59
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wip
the art of falling apart
I had recognized what was happeningFar too late.
I was the nib of my calligraphy pen
piercing the blank slate.
I knew I had to get my act together and stay straight.
It was like I was on the very last page
Of my beat up composition journal.
Too much aggression, or maybe it was
A passion that I was learning to control
Like when my eyes met the paper,
And all I saw was ink blots and drips.
Not much to show for despite my best attempts, I’ll admit.
No matter how much my actions had changed,
My mind was in the same, sad state
Like stains left on a table
Long after you clean up the mess.
I can trade one habit for another.
You can take to oil painting not long after that.
But it also takes far too long to dry
I felt just as used as an eraser.
As thin as tracing paper.
I could tell my artwork was starting to worry too.
Its colors became monotone and dim.
The people in my paintings stopped smiling.
Anytime I tried to pick myself up
My shaky hands would try to continue.
But I would smear what has already been done.
Just constantly undoing and never able to catch up
My eyeliner was smeared charcoal.
My tears were a smoke gray watercolor
Dancing down thick cardstock.
Poetry by aidan haskel
Read 278 times
Written on 2021-08-03 at 12:59
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
