The Sketchbook

You make it look so easy to start on a clean page
To disregard the past mistakes that were scribbled in furious rage
That one obnoxious line that messed up her eyes
You express the emotions I try to disguise

Your story speaks of laughter, sorrow and lamentation
In vibrant colours splashed onto the page, I forget my isolation
Some jaded drawings are black and white, while others are gaudy and crude
But some have soft and gentle strokes, my love of art renewed

I can look back and smile at the sketches of my youth
Laugh light-heartedly at how my style was uncouth
This face was too big, this hand was too small
This person looked too angry, this flower was too tall

You wait quietly, dutifully on my desk for me to draw more
I draw to relieve stress between chore after chore
You blend in with my textbooks in my school bag in the day
And in the evening, my pencil dances away

Beneath your black cover lies this surge of hues
There’s no other pastime I would rather choose
I owe you thanks for being my confidant and friend
Words I cannot speak are conveyed in the end