Poem: The Artist

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I was an artist

The brush was my knife

The paint was my blood

The canvas my life


My paintings were endless

And the critics were too

So I painted much harder

It’s all I could do


I painted all night

Till my canvas was full

Ran out of room

But I gave it my all


I used so much paint

They threw out my brush

It made me feel faint

But it gave me a rush


They hung out my canvas

And hoped it would dry

Removed all my tools

Till the artist had died

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Comments 9 comments

PHILLYDREAMER profile image

PHILLYDREAMER 4 years ago from Lodi, New Jersey

I love the dark imagery of this piece.


sarcasticool profile image

sarcasticool 4 years ago from New Zealand Author

Glad you like it, thank you.


Rosemay50 profile image

Rosemay50 4 years ago from Hawkes Bay - NewZealand

A simple yet meaningful poem, loved the imagery you created


sarcasticool profile image

sarcasticool 4 years ago from New Zealand Author

Glad you like it, pain makes for some good poetry doesn't it? :)


sarcasticool profile image

sarcasticool 4 years ago from New Zealand Author

Thanks!


sarcasticool profile image

sarcasticool 4 years ago from New Zealand Author

thank you very much :)


sharonzuniga profile image

sharonzuniga 4 years ago from Charlotte, NC

Love your poetry as usual. Very subtle way to describe such pain and suffering.


MrEction 4 years ago

I love the imagery.


Express10 profile image

Express10 4 years ago from East Coast

Wow, I really like this. Your words flow eloquently. Beautiful job.

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