This image isn't yet finished, but I have to post it for a class. It comes with a poem.
An Artist’s Birth
Graphite grease like a second skin
Smothers my fingers, nose, and chin
Eraser nub now a field of string
All is smudged but the page before me.
A homely birth to a comely face.
And from her a radiance constrains my senses
Preventing departure, I linger still
Make thy mark, she speaks
Make thy will.
In thy tender care I live
By thy gentle touch I breathe
Stroke my hair and rub my cheek
Bring me form from obscurity
As thou wilt I will conform
On thy page my soul is born
Without thee I would not be
And all I ask before thou leaves
Is make me whole, make me ‘plete
Forsake me not, my maker, please.
How can I live and never know
Thy plan for me was more than shallow?
So make of me that thou wishes,
All I ask is I am finished.
Hunched in a basement, my back is sore.
A single prison-like window that glows no more.
I look away. Wipe black my eyes with medium.
2am, yet again? I think. 2am
And she’s calling to me,
My handicapped child
This shouldn’t be, an unexpected creation
A hobbyist’s delight, reality’s abortion.
Too much tomorrow, I haven’t the strength
One or the other must break.
I swallow, clear my mind from the consequence
And calmly return to my elevated desk.
Shh, I whisper. It’s alright. I dab her eye, brighten the light.
I won’t forsake thee, love, no, not tonight.
You trust in me and I will guide
Until the light and shadows we’ve tried
Til the stray marks have been erased
And we through the night together awake
When you are made whole and I am made great.