Not the wrist nor the eye

 The sun leapt through art class
The lines on the teachers face
The charcoal sketch wanting more
not satisfying the wrist nor the eye

The date was perfectly formed paining exquisitely
I was the abstract attempting surreal and vise worser
I was the lack of a story trying to manifest on paper
Water colored hormones clouding the path ahead

enthusiasm was a sweet opiate conjured by simple looks
and some sort of magic poured out of hands
sacred stains and evidence of perception
oh elegant failure

The sun touched Rebeccas face
day dreams swung into lines and color
morning sun observing shyness and approval seeking
Unaware of the power of our own organs

life played them as we attempted to create art
where was my power of interpretation