The day I killed a leader with my brushstrokes was unremarkable. <br /> <br />I sat in silence, an epiphany <br />of thought made my pencil throb against lily <br />white paper, achingly <br />blank with failure. <br />It wasn't art I needed, it was words. <br />Swirling around my head were thousands, <br />millions, <br />waiting to be lined up into some suitable poem, <br />short, <br />novella, <br />pasa doble, <br />some beautiful sonnet that they could rejoice in being made of, <br />and I could be proud of, <br />and she could be jealous of, <br />and he could be part of. <br />That was where it all started. <br /> <br />The longing for his dexterous fingers that could form such masterpieces, the longing for the thinking that could form <br />countries of my eyes. <br /> <br />And so on I paint, <br />and on I yearn, <br />and on I fail, <br />and on continues the unremarkable.<br /><br />Effie Yalena Steyn<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/part-1-unremarkable/
