Me and my pen seem to disagree
about where it is
and where it ought to be.
Such a beautiful thoughts
come out as bollocks you see.
It must be my pen
it can't be me.

I can not draw, I can not get my eye in.

Oh right!
Blame me, your Eye.
Why should not I hold her image dear as mine?
What good would you with it do?
Each thieving nerve and sinew takes its grasping cut,
leaves nothing for the pencils tip to spew.

Besides.

The light itself, it clings to her
unwilling to reflect and share
her warm and tender form.
See, as she glows, the light reluctant still to leave
will not look directly at me your Eye.
But defuse and softly glows to steal away its jewel.

So.

You see, it is you who cannot draw, not I.
The line, it does not lie.
Make not an enemy of me, your eye.
Beware your step where hidden shadows lie.
Is that a donor card I spy?
Do not assume you can always on me rely.

Listen to me, your friend, your eye.
It is you who can not draw, not I.
See the line sleep quietly on the paper there.
It does not say, nor understand, nor care,
how such simple forms as lines and angles can
transform, distort grotesquely,
between your eye, and the pencil in your useless hand.

Each thieving nerve and sinew takes its grasping cut
leaves nothing for the pencils tip to spew.

Your image ricochets from my nib.
demanding its freedom from my pen.

No! I shall not lie here.

I shall chart my way within the storm.
Not be a slave to her divine recumbent form.

This is hard for me
Whatever is it I see
will not transform
from pen onto paper for me.

Whatever it is
however I see
my eye withholds
the image from me.

Somewhere between my eye and my pen
the image is lost, or, more likely stolen.
Consumed by my heart, imprisoned within.

She clearly does not want to be here
she sinks into the chair.
Eyes hid behind a not there stare.

Reflections, reflections
reflections, imperceptions
of lines and imperfections
of memories and recollections
looking in the wrong direction.

This face has features unremembered
time scribbled notes, unread, unnumbered
there is nothing here I knew of me
just what I feared I'd one day be.

Whirlpools form at the pencils tip
daring "touch the paper" "kiss me quick"
vanishing as virga lines almost drawn
hesitant shapes from hasty flourishes form
your image appears, so painfully born.

I do not understand
how lines and angles
transform, distort,
between my eye and hand.