I spend my days sketching hands and
Quaint French cafes, and scribbling on
I spend my nights between pages of
Old sketchbooks and diaries, and
Doodling my way to sleep.
But last night when you asked me to
Draw myself, and put my being onto paper,
It troubled my fire, and turned it static,
And left me deep in thought.
I can draw the stars in the night sky, the
Dandelions and butterflies, and
The smiles on strangers’ faces;
I can create
So long as I get to be the artist,