#20 one cut, one polished

I tried my hands at drawing—
again, after many long years.
I was proud of my doodles once,
not knowing they were unremarkable
and far too green.
When I realized I wasn’t the artist
I always thought I was,
I gave up on the lines, the shapes, the sketches,
and turned to letters and poetry instead.

My rhythm and verses weren’t remarkable either,
but I had more fun playing with words
and letting my soul take on a new form.
Still, I never quite understood
figures, lines, shapes, and pictures.
I believed I wasn’t any kind of artist—
because to draw, I had to visualize, imagine, trace,
to see clearly what lived in my mind.

Until I tried drawing again.
The lines curved into shapes and patterns—
details I once could only describe
with some silly name.
I never thought I’d see
the most intricate parts—
the boxes, spheres, lines, and ellipses
coming together as form and picture.

Oh, I wish I never gave up on being more—
when I could have become more
if I hadn’t stopped.

Oh, how I wish I realized, early on,
the joy of drawing
as much as I did poetry.

Maybe I could’ve been —

-----

I tried my hands at drawing—
again, after many long years.
I used to be proud of my old doodles,
not knowing how green they were.
When I realized the truth,
I let the sketchbooks gather dust
and found a home in words instead.

My rhythms weren’t remarkable either—
but I liked the way language let me breathe,
how a line of poetry could become
a shape all its own.

Still, drawings escaped me.
I thought art meant seeing clearly,
as if imagination needed perfect focus.

Until I tried again.
And suddenly, the lines curved
into quiet little worlds—
boxes, spheres, ellipses
finally clicking into form.

And I wonder, sometimes,
what I could’ve become
if I hadn’t walked away so soon.

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