Unknown artist: The Holy Family (19th century copy of the c. 1528-29 original by Andrea del Sarto). On display at The Mark Twain House & Museum
When brush meets canvas
& art is not painted,
when pen meets parchment
& poem is not written,
I feel the tragedy of failure,
prodding productions of violence
looming over my head,
suffocating my spirits
with a portrait that screams
of forgery.
You are my disciple—
young child,
& I will hold you near
with your hand on my chest,
but you are a worthless fake,
my showboat, that
personifies my ignorance.
Theft of originality
is my enemy,
yet we turn back to find
impersonations of European
styles in my notebook,
thrilling, cheap
copies of what is not mine
to share.
Plastered on seashell blush
where silver crescendos
like the waves of the
rippling sea of success
I have not traversed,
my beauty,
I’m sorry I cannot
mirror your excellence.
Writing a poem,
you are my muse,
abject mockery of art,
& I will write it just as you
are, lousy and unfulfilled.