I drew two mountains, a sun in the middle and a river flowing between them.
A picture forever familiar, exhibiting innocence and uniformity.
An ode to the death of creativity
It is understood among artist to be bold with their strokes.
Let the art breathe, do not set on it the fire of doubt ignited from within the hearts of wavering adults.
But can this art be myself if I do not let my anxiety bleed into it?
My soul could not withstand the world. It’s glares and it’s stares.
Now my palette is muddled.
The colours did not loose their vibrance.
They did not falter with time’s crusade,
But by their own will.
The more you mix the closer they get to a dirty black.
The painting left is crisp and sharp but less vibrant and a lot darker.
It could not potray the feeling of sweetness that I hoped to save.
The feeling of hands held in timid secrecy.
But how would I’ve salvaged this when,
The first brush strokes kissed my canvas as I watched you paint her portrait.