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Description
I'm just a sketch
floating in a foggy dream
as the Artist creates me;
hands raised in a silent plea,
I'm begging -
for what?
I do not know.
Eyes like shutters locked up
tight, face lifted upwards:
milky white.

A stance of pleading,
but not bleeding, for
something good to come;
I resonate helpless prayers,
not spoken
but thought - for my mouth
has been sewn shut
with the cement of defeat.

The pencil that once, lovingly,
traced my curves - from the
arc of my arms to
the shaded dimension
of my legs - has stuttered
and sputtered to a
halt.

With a jagged slash,
the Artist reels back
in frustration, leaving
a scar across my face;
my limbs begin to
vanish without a trace;
my torso is soon just
wiped from the page as
the Artist scrubs
my life away with that
pink knife
gripped in slender talons.

Once, I was a vision -
a beacon of life and light;
my image warmed cold blood
and swarmed the mind
with creative thought;
I inquired and inspired
with my aspiring ambition
to reach out of this
two dimensional tarp and
touch the Artist with
trembling lines,
wanting so much to
know the mysteries
outside of this paper prison.

Foolishness, however,
rewards no one; and now
it's too late for certainty;
I'm just a pair of
crossed fingers,
awaiting the day
tender strokes will
salvage what's left
and return me to my
solid page.

Description
I'm just a sketch
floating in a foggy dream
as the Artist creates me;
hands raised in a silent plea,
I'm begging -
for what?
I do not know.
Eyes like shutters locked up
tight, face lifted upwards:
milky white.

A stance of pleading,
but not bleeding, for
something good to come;
I resonate helpless prayers,
not spoken
but thought - for my mouth
has been sewn shut
with the cement of defeat.

The pencil that once, lovingly,
traced my curves - from the
arc of my arms to
the shaded dimension
of my legs - has stuttered
and sputtered to a
halt.

With a jagged slash,
the Artist reels back
in frustration, leaving
a scar across my face;
my limbs begin to
vanish without a trace;
my torso is soon just
wiped from the page as
the Artist scrubs
my life away with that
pink knife
gripped in slender talons.

Once, I was a vision -
a beacon of life and light;
my image warmed cold blood
and swarmed the mind
with creative thought;
I inquired and inspired
with my aspiring ambition
to reach out of this
two dimensional tarp and
touch the Artist with
trembling lines,
wanting so much to
know the mysteries
outside of this paper prison.

Foolishness, however,
rewards no one; and now
it's too late for certainty;
I'm just a pair of
crossed fingers,
awaiting the day
tender strokes will
salvage what's left
and return me to my
solid page.