my paintbrush saw it all,
the sad, paint-crusted kitchen sink that crudely sat in the corner,
that sink that never seemed clean,
with rainbows of colors that all muddled together into a thick permafrost of color.
it saw the hands of them,
sometimes blackened with lead and charcoal
sometimes suffocated with pastey layers of sticky oil paint,
leftovers that never got to see the crisp white of the canvas.
it saw the tears that dribbled down their faces,
messy, salty tears that fought to escape their eyes, clenched
shut.
my paintbrush saw it all,
my face of only excitement, pride in my practice, hope of
success.
its dried-out bristles and half-cracked handle stood out to me,
i guess.
it soaked up the heavy white paint, bowing from the effort.
it could use some practice,
same as me, i suppose.
it danced along the paper,
first gliding gracefully,
smoothing out thick blocks of color.
then it decided that stomping firmly,
splitting its bristles wide like a dancer does a split,
was more efficient.
it fluttered along the sharp edges,
fanned out like a broom,
perhaps waiting for a sip of water to quench its tired feet.
it watched in amazement as the colors below its feet blended together,
swirling harmoniously like magic.
i set it down in the water,
and it liked the little bath,
swishing in lazy loops,
arms extended wide open.
it danced along the edges of the muddy paint basin,
kicking its feet against the fogged
plastic tin.
my paintbrush saw the face of disappointment,
hopefully not its first time,
because this one was painful
my previous confidences billowed away
like the globs of acrylic
that my paintbrush just scrubbed itself clean of.
my paintbrush saw the next day
a new sheet of canvas,
a new face of determination.
it glided happily,
glancing up hopefully to see my reaction.
it was disappointment, again.
and then tears, again
and then anger from those tears, again
and then defeat, again
but it stayed with me
and on that day
for its first time
my paintbrush saw
the face of achievement.
and my paintbrush,
with the dried out bristles,
and the broken handle,
fulfilled its goal.
my paintbrush,
from the paint-crusted sink in the corner,
saw it all.
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Canary word: Present
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125,021 Literary Works • 672,740 Reviews
I like this poem.
My favorite part is the fact that you gave the brush its point of view.
I can relate to how you take your work and criticize it harshly.
I hate my work even if it is good. Then you talk about how it fulfilled its goal
and it saw the face of achievement.
This was a really great poem! You did such a good job
I think it's beautifully written so more of what I am going to comment on is just grammar and structure.
So, structure wise, I think you could benefit from stanzas. The format seems to be one big, long stanza, but I feel like as you move from idea to idea on what your paintbrush sees, you could make them separate stanzas. This is just to make the distinction between each thing it sees a bit more clear.
Moving on to grammar, I see you used punctuation a lot while writing this so I just wanted to point out where I, personally, think a mark was missed.
The first was at "because this one was painful / my previous confidences billowed away"
I think you could end the sentence at "because this one was painful" because it just feels like it ends there and completes the idea of the sentence.
The second one was at "it was disappointment, again. / and then tears, again"
Because you start a repetition here with the word again and what is happening again, I think it would be best to take off the period between those two lines and just make it one big sentence. It might go against the rules of grammar but sometimes they should be followed and sometimes they should be broken.
I hope you take my comments into consideration. As I said before, you did a very good job with this poem. I really loved it and I look forward to reading more of your work. Thank you for writing this and thank you for reading my review!
Hi zc927...
I found this poem amazing. every line u mentioned was true for an artist.
the way u narrated your poem was fabulous !
An artist would alwaays think like that. there was no faulty I found in it but there is always a chance to improve yourself. So best of luck for another writing like this. i will hope it will more
touching.
from Sulagna
This poem is really true!The artist disappointment and also success,i find that it really dipicts the life of an artist.It is also quite funny at the same time.Like how you said disappointment and later on you said disappointment again.
like here this part!
this part was really true!
my face of only excitement, pride in my practice, hope of
success.
its dried-out bristles and half-cracked handle stood out to me,
i guess.
it soaked up the heavy white paint, bowing from the effort.
it could use some practice,
same as me, i suppose.
it danced along the paper,
first gliding gracefully,
smoothing out thick blocks of color.
then it decided that stomping firmly,
splitting its bristles wide like a dancer does a split,
was more efficient.
it fluttered along the sharp edges,
fanned out like a broom,
perhaps waiting for a sip of water to quench its tired feet.
it watched in amazement as the colors below its feet blended together,
swirling harmoniously like magic.
i set it down in the water,
and it liked the little bath,
swishing in lazy loops,
arms extended wide open.
it danced along the edges of the muddy paint basin,
kicking its feet against the fogged
plastic tin.
my paintbrush saw the face of disappointment,
hopefully not its first time,
because this one was painful
my previous confidences billowed away
like the globs of acrylic
that my paintbrush just scrubbed itself clean of.
my paintbrush saw the next day
a new sheet of canvas,
a new face of determination.
it glided happily,
glancing up hopefully to see my reaction.
it was disappointment, again.
and then tears, again