This keyboard has become my palette as such
Laden with the colours that construct my words
Each stroke in itself may be not art so much
In its completion a masterpiece, perhaps?

No artist am I that could draw or sculpt
Water-colours or oils have no meaning
My creative means is to write down words
and within find a poetic leaning

And does the artist paint the scene
Or the writer describe it in vivid prose?
The pleasure I find in writing my words
Is found as this craft within me grows

Not for the acolades it would bring
Or for praise from my fellow man
I write as such the words I do
Simply because I believe I can.


** I have been deliberate in the reduced word count in each stanza as (I hope) a way of showing the limitation of thought due to the writers self doubts creeping in. The "artist" is often the most critical of his or her own work.