If I were a good enough artist,

and had the skill to be honest,

I’d paint self portraits

as true to life as I could make them.

I’d paint a purple rimmed boy looking up.

Hands held together,

fidgeting at his waist,

big reflective pupils wide and pleading to the viewer.

I’d have a series of that boy.

Going up to strangers in the street,

and tugging on their shirts,

red rimmed from crying

forgiving the ones that kicked him.

I’d draw an ordinary sunflower.

Under and extraordinary sky.

With a thousand suns

so that when it tried to face them all

it ends up tying itself in knots.

I’d draw a puppy.

Cute.

but Stupid.

And who has time to take on a puppy.

I’d photograph a baby crying for attention.

In a train, on a plane, in a movie.

A basket on the front porch of an orphanage

with a NO VACANCY sign.

I’d draw that one indoor plant that’s wilting

even though all the others are fine.

That you give up on and stick by the window

then by the door

then down by trash.

I’d draw a pretty girl

in a world

where everyone is blind.

I’d sketch a fat fucking pig.

Stuffing its mouth with steak and lobster

as much as shit and dirt

and grinning all the same.

I’d draw Edward scissor hands.

Curtsying in a skirt,

doing a little spin.

Waiting on his knees.

I’d paint myself sleeping.

With a genuine relaxed smile.

In a comfortable place or bed.

Then I’d ball that one up.