I feel like something has been stolen from me
After 23 years of ownership
Lots of things has been torn away from my clutch
But none were mine to begin with
So I didn't mind
Much
Perhaps you wouldn't understand
Not if you do this for popularity
Or fun
Not even if you do this to earn a living
This is part of who I am, sir
As soothing to me as Aspirin when I'm seized with a migraine
Because the first thing I ever scribbled wasn't a letter
And when there is no pencil within reach
I'd slide my fingers in the air like a maniac, and let my senses preach
I was told that I can't draw people with faces because it's a sin
But I wasn't trying to play God
I don't think that was my real intention
Because I've been doing it ever since i used to draw girls with long skirts
And their bent knees would still stick from underneath
The thought never crossed my mind
So over the years I learnt to make them more alive with every stroke
And I'd think of adding a dent in the chin here and a knot of a brow there
A perfect, tender half blink of an eye
To sort of give them a curious temper
So that if they were alive, and their pupils would burn like ember
They would talk to me
Whisper to me their amiable thanks
And listen to my whimpers when i'm sad
How would my naive heart, enveloped with loneliness
Ever know
That humans are not to try to make dead things lope around
When all I wanted was to make a friend or two
I sealed away my sketchbook since then
Rubbed off their features
Their smiles ,and their dilated eyes
They look so hideous, incomplete portraits of doltish phizes
Absent and conformed, eerie and malformed
I don't miss them anymore,they were a mere creation of my hands
And I got older and learnt that had I to deal with sundry humans
With burning pupils, and faces wrinkled and pimpled
But I miss with an insatiable hunger
How i felt when i made them
Try to picture all the time and grit, all the wasted motions and sweat
I invested in getting the right shade
Depicting the kinda smile I saw in my head
Sharpening the pencil every time it's dulled
And the smell of the dark smudges on my finger tips
The vexation at the faded blotches of black on my rubber
And the base of my palm
And a whole day of depression and anxiety
An entire decade of existential uncertainty
Is breathed away into a prognathous collection of curves and edges
It is so torturous
To mentally slap my hand before it reaches for a pencil, before questioning my motives
How mortified i am
When i find one carved on my disk when I don't remember when i made it
How I tremble in despair
When i recall
All the ones i made throughout the years, that I can't trace them back to erase their faces
And i can't throw away a pile of dusty papers perfumed with my sighs
I can't burn the minute threads of my feels blending with the fiber of the darkened papers
I can't bury them, It's like burying my soul along
I can't look at them
They remind me of how incomplete I feel
I've lost my zeal now, and I'm a nose-less persona
Just like these forsaken pictures
Dear God, please forgive me
I'm trying so hard ,but this is so difficult
Dear God, please forgive me
I'll do this for you, while muffling the grunts of regret
But this is more painful than anything
I've experienced in my entire life
It feels like my skin was ripped off my limbs
Like my heart was gouged out my chest without anesthesia
And my body is too shocked to bleed just yet
Dear God,
All my life i didn't know who i was
And I found myself in these invented strangers
I have nothing else
Nothingness is growing inside of me
Feeding off my soul
Until it swallows me whole
Dear God,
Please
Help me
Fill this void with a predilection as sapid
As absorbing
As endearing
Dear God,
Poetry is all I've got left
After 23 years of ownership
Lots of things has been torn away from my clutch
But none were mine to begin with
So I didn't mind
Much
Perhaps you wouldn't understand
Not if you do this for popularity
Or fun
Not even if you do this to earn a living
This is part of who I am, sir
As soothing to me as Aspirin when I'm seized with a migraine
Because the first thing I ever scribbled wasn't a letter
And when there is no pencil within reach
I'd slide my fingers in the air like a maniac, and let my senses preach
I was told that I can't draw people with faces because it's a sin
But I wasn't trying to play God
I don't think that was my real intention
Because I've been doing it ever since i used to draw girls with long skirts
And their bent knees would still stick from underneath
The thought never crossed my mind
So over the years I learnt to make them more alive with every stroke
And I'd think of adding a dent in the chin here and a knot of a brow there
A perfect, tender half blink of an eye
To sort of give them a curious temper
So that if they were alive, and their pupils would burn like ember
They would talk to me
Whisper to me their amiable thanks
And listen to my whimpers when i'm sad
How would my naive heart, enveloped with loneliness
Ever know
That humans are not to try to make dead things lope around
When all I wanted was to make a friend or two
I sealed away my sketchbook since then
Rubbed off their features
Their smiles ,and their dilated eyes
They look so hideous, incomplete portraits of doltish phizes
Absent and conformed, eerie and malformed
I don't miss them anymore,they were a mere creation of my hands
And I got older and learnt that had I to deal with sundry humans
With burning pupils, and faces wrinkled and pimpled
But I miss with an insatiable hunger
How i felt when i made them
Try to picture all the time and grit, all the wasted motions and sweat
I invested in getting the right shade
Depicting the kinda smile I saw in my head
Sharpening the pencil every time it's dulled
And the smell of the dark smudges on my finger tips
The vexation at the faded blotches of black on my rubber
And the base of my palm
And a whole day of depression and anxiety
An entire decade of existential uncertainty
Is breathed away into a prognathous collection of curves and edges
It is so torturous
To mentally slap my hand before it reaches for a pencil, before questioning my motives
How mortified i am
When i find one carved on my disk when I don't remember when i made it
How I tremble in despair
When i recall
All the ones i made throughout the years, that I can't trace them back to erase their faces
And i can't throw away a pile of dusty papers perfumed with my sighs
I can't burn the minute threads of my feels blending with the fiber of the darkened papers
I can't bury them, It's like burying my soul along
I can't look at them
They remind me of how incomplete I feel
I've lost my zeal now, and I'm a nose-less persona
Just like these forsaken pictures
Dear God, please forgive me
I'm trying so hard ,but this is so difficult
Dear God, please forgive me
I'll do this for you, while muffling the grunts of regret
But this is more painful than anything
I've experienced in my entire life
It feels like my skin was ripped off my limbs
Like my heart was gouged out my chest without anesthesia
And my body is too shocked to bleed just yet
Dear God,
All my life i didn't know who i was
And I found myself in these invented strangers
I have nothing else
Nothingness is growing inside of me
Feeding off my soul
Until it swallows me whole
Dear God,
Please
Help me
Fill this void with a predilection as sapid
As absorbing
As endearing
Dear God,
Poetry is all I've got left
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