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Blank Canvas Syndrome

... And so, the wild horse and its silhouette attempt to outrun each other, like one attempts to outrun their transparency. Yet, is it the animal or its shadow that fades as the day grows long?

By K.R Coughlan Published 6 years ago 1 min read
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I'm sorry if I seem unkind

It's just my own worry

I talk and talk to push that boat out from

Bewilderment Harbour

It doesn't matter what I say

Or whether or not I'm, in fact, saying anything

Sometimes I see you looking

And I know you're looking to find me

You think you see me,

Sometimes I think you do too.

Then I flip the switch and find a new facet to hide under

Turn me over and my shell is hard

In the mornings I feel sickened

with the imminent nausea of doubt.

That thick hide of doom

wraps itself around my rib cage.

Can't breathe

Can't shake it off either

Later in the day though, I'll try to relate again

to what I initially found so charming,

so wonderful, so enchanting.

I remember in another life

how I felt that way too,

except that took years to

ebb away like drain water.

This, on the other hand, has slipped under

a locked door

and I've kept running.

Repulsed from such an affront to my resolve

I turn back to stand purposefully in my corner,

not to cower there

No, not at all...

In truth, there's no sense to make of what is

called, 'Me.'

Just a basket of layered sheets

all of them blank.

Unwrap one of them and you still get white noise.

The artist will believe he can decipher

the invisible ink,

or paint upon the empty canvas.

The fascination of this endeavour

can breed infatuation.

To what end?

Most likely theirs.

surreal poetry
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About the Creator

K.R Coughlan

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