These lines are too numerous

And too smudged, each shape and tone melding

Into one, big hodge-podge of gray.

Not to mention, the rendering of the background doesn’t even approach being satisfactory,

And my perspective is skewed beyond belief.

Look at the whole, and conclude that the verdict is:


Then again, as they say, isn’t taste subjective? Wouldn’t someone take this in, and love it?

Maybe… but objectively, they’d be absolutely wrong to do so – I am sure of it.

This piece that lacks contrast, proportion, and clarity –

Do I erase… alter… do I dare attempt repair?

Or, do I take a match to it, and reduce it to mere ash?


I stuff it, face down, into my dresser’s top drawer,

And go to fetch a fresh sheet of paper.

Poetry Thoughts and Entries

What is a drawing, other than the end of a line?

Draw me out, with brittle charcoal and whittled pencil

Onto whatever surface you can find.

After all, don’t I look better on paper

Than under those merciless rays that overwhelm the outdoors?

Where the external is viewed in however many angles,

And the reflected light is equal parts piercing and protective?

Here, my veins aren’t visible; you don’t see a single pimple or stray strand

Or even what the outline of my face looks like.

Here, in a line or two, the internal is traced, a strand of genotype that was never expressed.

Right, left, right, left, right, and then left again;

Though a dimension is lacking, it is almost easier to get lost.