The brittle blocks,
Seemed alien first,
Until you pulled them from the box,
Rubbed them on and smeared them in.
With some care and consideration,
And some practice and precision,
Whatever you’re working on,
Will look fuzzy and faded in.
The color binds to the blank space,
In whatever shape you’ve traced,
Wherever it’s been placed.
The mark of a good artist,
Is not the figure on the paper,
But the dark marks on their fingertips,
And passion that sometimes tapers,
But never disappears.
But keep from scribble-sniveling,
How easy it is to make drivel,
How easy it was to be Picasso,
Or Van Gogh,
When you were little.