He was a stickman,
A replica of a person,
Brought to life upon a page,
To a ballpoint mother,
Hastily penned and slightly smudged,

Art was his life,
His heartbeat,
The page was his home,
The quill was his ligaments,
And the ink his blood,

He dreamed big,
Ideas and scenarios always roiling in his head,
Fantasies in his circular head,
Of endeavours and monuments,
Of ladyfriends and families,

Despite his aspirations,
With all of that potential,
He could only go where the pen led,
Only where the artist dictated.

  1. Julydase says:

    Great poem! Oozes originally.

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