The Artist

The canvas is blank, the medium unknown,

The pictures, and why, lay deep in his soul,

The completed works, sit in the corner, all past,

The stillness of the next, his focused task,

As the colors are placed, at first just a line,

The artists emotions, take shape in due time,

He cannot be forced, or pushed just too far,

For the brushes he uses begin in his heart,

As the masses of wood, fabric, and paint,

Pile up in the room, his work left unpaid,

Are there for nothing, but piece of mind,

That perhaps in this world, that artist can find,

A common connection to your life, and mine.




Cheftell Cheftell
41-45, M
Mar 3, 2010