This is a poem about the wonders of drawing and how you so get overcome by it that you lose yourself and feel compelled by the value you put on the paper to spread it and create shapes and textures. You don't think of yourself, only of the drawing and what your doing with it. The image was found on flicker and is called 'Early Morning Light, Paris' by Peter G Hall.
From far away it looks like nothing but a smudge
You wait and you watch and you learn
The smudge, now something more, intricate, real
Figures of graphite, chalk, and charcoal
Leaping out, grabbing, snatching
Attention no longer yours to control
The smudge wields your will, twisting, pulling, pushing
Placing you here, scooting you there, moving you everywhere
Immersed in a world of shades and highlights
Eyes registered in the charcoal, one with it
Hands itching to mold over shapes, textures
Nose begging to behold it’s notorious scent
Who am I?
Where am I?
Do I care?
More than content, overjoyed, bursting with wonder
This world, glorious, splendid
Everything desired
I have lost myself and I couldn’t be happier
