Thursday, December 16, 2010

A Portrait And Those Who Helped Paint It

A blank piece of a paper crumbled to life,
I'll be torn, ripped, and burned.
Fold me into something your heart desires.
But hope for the best, when all goes sour.
I'll stray from the lines, a such a different thought.
I'm only learning from what I see,
a single trace of ink from pen to paper.
Once it dries, you can't erase the marks,
can't turn back when said and done.

Draw me in any shape or set.
I'll grow out of these silhouettes.
Make me flat, or give me depth,
make into the greatest you ever meant.
When you place the glass over my eyes,
and the frame around my neck,
I hope to hang with an image never to break.

I hope to be the only wall you care for.
Be ignored, or be challenged.
I know you'll go right through if I open the door.
Tell me now can this be done?
Tell me how I'll be able to overcome?
Tell me why, tell me lies, to set in the stun.

Markings from top to bottom,
left to right, and from back to front.
I'll wear my ink in different kinds of fonts.
You gave me life, not prove you are artist.
I'll hold tight to your hands,
but if you ever lose grip,
I'll slip, holding onto one little strand.

Draw me in any shape or set.
I'll grow out of these silhouettes.
Make me flat, or give me depth,
make into the greatest you ever meant.
When you place the glass over my eyes,
and the frame around my neck,
I hope to hang with an image never to break.

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