The Painting

How art is the soul of a person.

I took the stretched canvas placed it on my easel.

Stared at the blank space, realizing this could be a masterpiece.

This white woven cloth could be a message, a symbol or inspiration for thousands of years.

I was so proud of this great creation that was in my imagination.

 

The first few strokes contained my soul.

My soul was good, and I cherished it.

Feeling vulnerable, I had to smudge to conceal it.

Under the splatters of oil, only the most acute and deserving could see my truth.

 

Next was the image, the subject matter, the essence of my life experience.

I felt fire in my heart, my mind raced as it looked for just the right inspiration.

Pictures fluttered through my mind like a cinema scope, finally collapsing into a kaleidoscope.

Diamond shaped pixels tossed randomly about.

I tried to pick up the pieces, puzzle it into some fixated image.

But like wind through the forest,

at first it rustled the leaves, fell silent and was no more.

I was trapped alive in my grave,

no longer capable of expressing my thoughts, my hopes my dreams.

How can a man live his life and yet not be capable of painting one single painting of his essences?

The paint was layered, no work of art ever created.

The texture was rich, but no one could feel my desire.

The years have passed the paint now cracks and falls in decay.

It sits in a basement, and the mold slowly eats it away.

Many years can pass before any man will learn his lesson.

It is not the portrait that he paints that makes him great.

It is his soul exposed and revealed within it that becomes the masterpiece.

Reviews

[*~DreamDeamon~*]

A poem of painting, to me it seems the poem itself is the painting. Love the imagery, again and like always great flow, amazing way with words. Good Write!

[Samantha ~virginpoet]

beautiful I liked it good job

[Searching 4 Serenity]

Amen. Same thing applies to any piece of poetry, music, dance... Just about anything.