My fingers tell a story as they run
Sprinting across the paper
Skimming the white just enough
To leave marks across the white.
When I create I am all alone
Dancing to my own song
My own voice
My own rhythm
Of some unseen drum.
Can you see what I see?
Can you look inside my world?
My world of dictionary pages stained with ink
and canvas boards matted on black matts.
Can you hear what I hear?
The thump of a fan, slam of a door,
croak of a locust outside my window.
Can you smell what I smell?
Dogs and old books,
dust mites and dry watercolor.
Walk a mile in my shoes,
My worn out Rocket Dogs made of canvas
and sewn back together with love and white thread.
My steps are small and unsure,
Unsure of where they are headed.
Then again, who isn't?