I’ve pulled the canvas off again,
just the easel and frame remain.
It got to be too much.
Too many colors, strokes not adept.
The idea maybe was too broad and
I generalize to save face.

I tried to put on your face
but the paint was so thin,
your blue eyes and red hair,
your pale skin and all its’ freckles
ran from the canvas and spilled
to the floor, surrounding my feet
in a puddle gleaming
like oil on asphalt.

So, i gave on watercolors that day.
took to carving the next.
My first sculpture is based
on the way you look
as you crawl back into bed
to dream of a better artist.

Maybe his hands are able
and constant, or it’s his passion and skill
that move you. I reckon he spies you
with want and lust. You think
I once-overed you
with need.
Well, he probably wouldn’t bust
your bust or let your face drip
to the stone-cold floor or compare it all
to oil on asphalt.
(Can he compare at all?)