The Painter

an empty stage before it's set
the painter's canvas tightly stretched
upon a frame that's seen him fail before

his fingers stained from cigarettes
and paint that stays forever wet
and with the brush extend to start once more

with flow of wrist and flick of hand
a story starts to fill the man
who never seemed to get the ending right

as hours pass, he pushes on
racing just to beat the dawn
and in his heart believes this time he might

but as the sun begins to rise
the man steps back to rub his eyes
his glaring imperfections come to light

he couldn't keep himself from thinking
his work conveyed a deeper meaning
than aging hands were trained to show that night

and did Picasso and Monet
ever stop and feel the same?
will his creation summon praise someday?

Now he'll pretend he doesn't care
and leave it hanging, crooked there
the painter fights to push his doubts away

as he goes on to paint another day