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Poem: The Artist

Updated on February 28, 2012
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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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    • PHILLYDREAMER profile image

      Jose Velasquez 5 years ago from Lodi, New Jersey

      I love the dark imagery of this piece.

    • sarcasticool profile image
      Author

      sarcasticool 5 years ago from New Zealand

      Glad you like it, thank you.

    • Rosemay50 profile image

      Rosemary Sadler 5 years ago from Hawkes Bay - NewZealand

      A simple yet meaningful poem, loved the imagery you created

    • sarcasticool profile image
      Author

      sarcasticool 5 years ago from New Zealand

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

    • sarcasticool profile image
      Author

      sarcasticool 5 years ago from New Zealand

      Thanks!

    • sarcasticool profile image
      Author

      sarcasticool 5 years ago from New Zealand

      thank you very much :)

    • sharonzuniga profile image

      sharonzuniga 5 years ago from Charlotte, NC

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

    • profile image

      MrEction 5 years ago

      I love the imagery.

    • Express10 profile image

      H C Palting 5 years ago from East Coast

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

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