An artist dies twice – once when he stops creating,and other when he actually does.Truth be told, the first is more painful.
Lines,shapes,and colour,
Are elements of Art.
Texture ,space,and value,
That’s where she starts.
Day and night, she only dreamt,
Of the different things she would do,
And now that she knew her strength,
Her art would never stop,and neither would you.
The galaxy,the planets,and the milky way,
Was always her fascination,
Just thinking about painting it,
Made her sway.
She remembers the day ,
When she met an artist,
The one who made her passion stay.
She remembers his attitude,
And his love for art till this day.
She had told him he was talented,
And his answer had taken her by surprise.
He slowly stopped his artist’s bid,
And looked I to her innocent eyes.
“Thank you for the compliment,
I don’t want to be a jerk,
But you need to understand this statement,
That talent comes from doing work.”
His this one statement,
Had turned her thoughts upside down,
She looked deep within herself,
And found the art,that she now wears like a crown.
She would hear her art speak to her,
Telling her that she’s doing great.
“I am your vision,your passion,
Your impression of beauty.
This canvas is your stage,
As I perform for you.”
When she uses,
What’s she knows,
As an artist,
She will grow.
Everyday she moves her brush,
Everyday her hands trace,
Every oak,every human rush,
Every headstone,every face.
She understood now ,
What he meant,
When he said that people just cry.
She saw folks watching t.v.
As minutes and hours float by,
They would say she was pretty talented,
Admitting that they wouldn’t even try.
As old trees grew ring by ring,
Skill builds slowly year by year.
She would spend her days like magic coins,
Work,
And her talent would appear.
She now dreamed in watercolours,
Danced in blurred tones,
With every stroke she’d glide,
Like a little girl on a snow laden slide.
-Sia Savla.
A Writers Block 