Untitled

Once I tried,
To become,
An artist.
An artist, you know,
The one who paints.
Draws landscapes,
And figures,
And fills them all
With colours.
Someone who dares.
To shoot fish
Across the sky,
And have ducks
Along them, fly.

The instrument failed me.
The pencil, the palette.
And rejection too.
Of my art --
Unstiff muscles on figures,
Uneven dimensions.
Thoroughly roted --
Mountains, sun,
A river flowing out,
Huts,
And neighbouring
Coconut trees.
Stray lines for people,
Their shadows.

Newer lines were born.
Alive, unruly,
Yet disciplined.
Without much meaning,
Ambiguous,
Fulfilling.

For imaginative art,
The strokes weren't
Correct.
For spontaneous outpourings,
The crosshatches were
Dense,
Dedicated,
Dead.

I had to accept,
I was not one
To become
An artist.
One is not one,
Who draws on words.

What do you call one,
Whose words do?
Draw, paint.

Were I an artist,
And I left it
At that,
You would admire,
Attempt to understand,
Perhaps do,
And call it,
"Untitled."

But these,
Remember,
These are
My words.