Blank Canvas [Poetry]
Staring at the canvas stripped to the bone white as gesso – thalo green I like to paint thick – running the brush up my thigh – Cold. Closing my eyes waiting for inspiration that doesn’t hit me like it used to I grab a tube of crimson and smear it over my chest and face as I follow my hands to my head and cry. What happened all these years to me? They are all but faint memories that appear in words pictures and paintings – I am afraid…
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