Sketchbook

It started with a line
A pencil sketch from a steady hand
Vertical and straight, right down the left margin
Until a sudden curve
Quite literally draws it away
Mere seconds before it would have run out of page
     and died a smudge on the desk

The curve became a spiral
A slow and determined movement
Building a path
Traveling around and around itself
As if it were seeking its own center
Seeking some sort literal closure
     in the absence of an emotional one.

It started again with a square
One on top of another
Connected at the corners building a cube
Shaded on the side and
Casting a shadow to block out the spiral 
A box to keep everything in
     and the walls to keep everything out

Because this picture isn't worth 1,000 words
It's only a sketch worth 500
Just a moment in time, a second really
To explore the white space and
Rob it of its purity
Spreading darkness like butter onto bread
     feeding consciousness with beauty only to be thrown away

In the end maybe its enough
It might just happen that this sketch reached its full potential
And died happy in the trash
Balled up in the corner, hugging itself
Finally loving itself and being happy to do it
Or maybe that's the lie
     and every sketch that ever died in the trash is mad as hell

It could have been so much more
The next Mona Lisa or
Something as bright as Starry Night
Cathartic as the Scream
Only how will a sketch ever know
Huddled up around itself in the trash
     the junkie of art

Then it starts again with a line
Only the hand isn't so steady now
It shakes, trembling with urgent desire
An artist's need to create
To get that next fix
An explosion of self-expression in an image
     saying everything that must never be said

This line is darker
Striking in its boldness
Running to the edge of the white
Daring itself to jump from the page
To the sky as a bird in flight
A masterpiece sculpted from the meager beginnings
     of bold lines on a page

Instead the jump is a break
A right angle across and another up
Sketching the path of an elevator
Down to up and down again
Then back up and down more quickly
Cycling faster and faster rushing to the right margin
     where it will die, a smudge on the desk

It started with a line
A brushstroke from a steady hand
Vertical and straight, right down the left side of the canvas
Until a sudden curve
Quite literally paints it away
The beginning of a new picture born from trash
     a masterpiece worth 1,000 words. 

A Million Reasons (Draft)

There exist about a million reasons
When taken as a whole they paint a picture so complete
It could make the Mona Lisa smile
And when they're taken apart . . .
Fractured, fractal patterns of organized chaos
All beautiful and terrifying
A kaleidoscopic melange
A yin with its yang
Shining a light in the dark that exists within the light
Drawing in as the proverbial moth to the flame
Seeming not to notice that
An angel cannot fly with burned wings
And a man cannot climb
Under the weight of a million reasons
All collected in perpetuity
A million reasons
With a million, million justifications
A million reasons
Why?
A million reasons
Who?
A million reasons
What?
A million reasons
When?
A million reasons
Where?
A million reasons
how.
It is true what's been said before
Razors pain and rivers are damp
Acids stain and drugs cause cramp
Guns aren't lawful and nooses give
It still isn't enough, just to live
The truth hasn't set anyone free
There is no ascension to any mountaintop
Because among a million reasons
With a million million justifications
The literal one in a million speaks softly

There are no beautiful suicides