Random stories that I thought of that won't be finished/ continued

an artist's point of view (poem)

fingers wrapped around a book with no words,

the cover, black as a burnt log,

the spine a series of rings.

the fingers tipped red from the cold room,

they open the the first page.

to anybody else,

the page had become a beautiful work of art,

lines and curves,

and colors as well,

all working in harmony 

and the pencil was dancing across the page

while it was being created.

but to the artist,

the lines are too long,

and too short.

the curves are too bent, or too sharp.

and the colors leaked,

or are too dull or bright.

or maybe, not even the right color at all.

or maybe it wasn't

what they had imagined in their head,

so they hate it,

like it was their old bully.

they despise it, 

like it was insulting them.

and sometimes out of anger

tthey rip it out of the book 

and tear it apart

while thinking of what they

could have done to make it

'presentable'

and watch as it becomes fuel

 for the fire in the candle