The pencil gently greats the gift from a tree

As the mind starts to visualize a hoard of thoughts

My dreams... my imagination

At first being confound, luring me in every which direction

Finding the path, my inner soul drags me along

Almost as if dancing to the smooth sound of song

Then the idea appears, staring down upon me

The work of art truly begins without a plea

Laying down more etchings, more marks

Ideas swarming like a pool of sharks

Becoming more visual, accommodating lines are seen

Some etched, some lean

With negative space becoming abundent

Some say it's hideous, others brilliant

But to the creator...

Words are redundant