In a more rose-colored time, I
Painted my own likeness as an
Exercise. The face was almost mine,
Yet the square jaw had not my resolve;
The light in the eyes was too divine.
With brushes and palette in hand, I
Set my goal, to capture my soul
In oils. Prolific as a hare in heat,
I covered canvases with the smiles and
Sighs of a man who denied defeat.
Now, looking around the room, I
See failed panels: melodrama instead
Of sadness, genius covered by pretense.
My not-quite replicas stare at me alone.
I performed for no other audience.
The hand that might have painted the
World is now tired; my best efforts lie
Unseen and fading on a closet shelf.
Your poetry is an art, my dear, and
The best subject is not always yourself.
I think I got fed up with people continuously writing about insignificant
aspects of their lives. So this is my anti-teenage poem, or whatnot.