Bad Artist

Gee, I wonder who.

Can we really call this a debut at all,

if I have known you for most of my life?

If I have already memorized the way you hesitate

before committing marks to paper,

the way you lean closer to your work

like it might whisper something back?

Your life is archived in worn sketchbooks—

pages scarred by torn-out sketches,

corners curling inward from being opened too often,

as though you kept returning

to make sure those moments were still there,

untouched,

unless erased or redrawn;

unless you decided it no longer deserved to exist.

I have always understood your art—

the messages hidden between strokes,

the way your pencil digs deeper when you are distressed,

loosens into gentler lines when you feel safe,

and presses the paper thin

on days you wish you could disappear.

You were always one of the first names they called

whenever there were posters to be made,

whenever something needed to look beautiful

from a distance.

Whenever something needed to be seen,

they chose you to make it visible.

Have you not noticed?

You were particular even then—

about the use of pencils,

about that one specific ballpoint pen you refused to replace,

about the places you were comfortable creating your masterpieces.

Now you draw on glass screens,

your fingers gliding across digital canvases

that never tear, never stain, never wear—

yet I still recognize the same pauses in your strokes,

the same places where you press harder

as if something is trying to force something inside you

onto the screen in front of you.

Everyone knows that you draw.

Some only ever peek at finished pieces,

the slightly crooked lines, the careful shading.

But I wish to be the only one

who knows what they truly mean—

the reason you darkened certain corners,

the thoughts you buried beneath each stroke,

the quiet stories hidden in the art you produce.

And maybe I am selfish for this,

yet half of me wants to keep you unexhibited—

a private gallery I alone am allowed to wander,

a museum for which only I have the keys.

But the other half of me is tempted

to show you off like an oil painting—

wanting the world to know how proud I am of you,

to translate every line you’ve ever drawn

and proclaim, "he's such an artist, isn't he?"

Unlike you, I am no artist.

I have no talent for lines or shading;

I have no talent for painting or drawing.

I am not blessed with the skill

of turning blank pages into something beautiful.

All I know how to do is talk about the things you create;

to comment on what you leave behind in graphite, ink, and pixels.

So if you would let me,

I would be your writer.

Your bad writer,

for a guy who thinks he is a bad artist.