Immerse the brush in oiled hues,
blind eyes sense it gliding
effortlessly over the canvas,
concealing what’s white behind.
What Claire paints is a mystery.
The psychologists don’t understand.
She's the one to hoodwink them all,
most view her as one of the damned.
Not a soul can comprehend,
that what she paints is a man’s physique.
The forced touch that can’t be voiced,
no creature will distinguish it’s me.
Author notes
any comments are wanted.
Written October 7th, 2006
What did you think
Comments
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I like this poem
This form of is not my favorite. So, is hard for me to comment on fairly. So, I read it three times to get the feel for the words.
The second line threw. Is Claire blind. I once worked at a school for the mentally retarted. I get a message from this poem that Claire is in a mental institution. I am a little excentric when it comes to poetry. I feel that there a place for the poet that follows the strict guidlines of grammer, punctuation, etc. and there's the poetry that comes from the heart that sets no guidelines. I like the freelance best. I really liked this poem.
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