In the Monochromatic

How proud the painter,
How steady the strokes,
How they alight upon the canvas
And depart like labored breaths

How might it feel, at the
End of the line, to stand
Back and aside and be
Artistically malcontent?

My strokes are taught and
Jagged; mine are the shot,
Monochromatic—how they
Cling, juvenile, to their canvas

How it does feel, at the
End of another night, to
Surrender, sleep, and be
Utterly inane

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/40i4vg/monday/ https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/40fjr0/drifting_into_nothing/

(Note: I, uhm, haven't really written poetry before...taking a class, figured I ought to try my hand. This was the result of a lot of drafting, but I'd really like feedback from someone that isn't me)