I remember holding the brush in my hand for the time
How right the practicaly weightless thing felt, just sitting there in the pam of my hand, posed over the canvas calling out to it
How it vibrated with anticipation as I dipped it into the black ink, preparing to make my very first stroke
It hovered over the canvas, a breaths way from it, I couldn't breathe, to caught up up in the thrill of the moment
I finally make the first stroke, the black ink devouring the white mass of paper
Swirls and lines of all sorts and sizes light up the canvas forming into something more intimate before my very eyes
The smell of acrylic and other various scents wafting up to my nostrils as I inch forward
My eyes squinting as I watch the swift and graceful movements my brush was laying before me
My hand having a mind of its own as it matches its movements perfectly in sinc with the canvas
I hesitantly reach out, unsure whether or not to touch it
I tentatively touch the surface, feeling the series of textures on my finger tips
My brows pinch in curiousity as my head tilts slightly to the right
The paintings telling a story,its telling you its story as you run over the texture again with the tips of your fingers, this time more openly
A grin spreads across my face as I lean back in my seat
Tasting the old, dry, flaky paint as you stick the end of the brush in your mouth, admiring your work
This was the first poem I ever wrote <3 Hoped you guys liked it ;D
~CrystalJewell
