Slender strokes of loveless paint,
an affront to canvas but soul acquaint,
digging deeply for guidance dreamed,
but relented from that creative stream.
And colors marred from pointless lines,
meld in tones of grey in time,
searching, desperate for form and life,
an artist struggle in bottled strife.
And numbing words reverberate,
within a skull too numb to wait,
that rainbow seen so far from place,
a giddy blurred and slurring waste.
The bottle drawn and memories sting,
that loss of love and fragile wing,
turbulent rolling inner will,
no brush can bleed, no heart instill.
Art is life and life is art,
and broken hearts with art depart,
and bottles numb but solve not pain,
just forgetful minds sing death's refrain.
And walk that single narrow line,
a teetering abyss awaits, divine,
as purpose falls from grace and mind,
and soul relents on life and rhyme.
The canvas speaks of disrespect,
and that bottle empty, its use reject,
and still the artist bleeds in self,
regretful hearts and selected stealth.
Hiding from an empty white,
his colors bleached and need respite,
for now self-pity is all that's worth,
a creative minds chosen birth.
Lost within that righteous flow,
where life once lived and overflowed,
the artist kneels in sadness lost,
this block a deep and malignant cost.