It all started with what you drew
Lines on paper, that went up and through
An image beautiful and harrowing and hollow too
That’s when I knew there was something haunting you
Your smile was contagious
Your humor outrageous
I remember you on the stage
Just right
Every night
You took off in flight
Saying lines to the light
Persistently proving your amorous ambition for acting and its high
How sad it was when you decided to say goodbye
You woke up on the wrong side of your mind
Decided that you were a little behind
Slipped into shoes old and ragged
Smoothed out your edges, rough and jagged
Ran your fingers through your wild hair
Put on a careless and relaxed air
Ignored the monster under the stair
And lofted about on a blue, ancient chair
I looked at your art again and again
A curious case of a curious new friend
Piecing together the puzzle and trying to comprehend
Why your aura was cold and desolate and blue
Why you shut down when the focus wasn’t on you
Why your knuckles were scarred and bruised
Yet nothing affected your upright attitude
We talked more and more
Months and months went by
I eventually found out
And it made me cry
Your past was dark and jaded
Any determination you had faded
Depression loomed over you and waited
Anxiety eating at you on a day-to-day basis
Yet you gave me the understatement
Blew it off and tried to be patient
You carry a world of hurt on your shoulders
It gets larger and larger as you grow older
You keep your distance, but refuse to grow colder
But you’ve also sacrificed other things
Your drive disappeared
You seem to live in fear
Your focus isn’t even here
What do you love or hold dear?
This puzzle is only half-done
I don’t know if this is just some
Theory of a question that will never see completion
Or perhaps… you’re an artist who’s just begun
***
A dear friend of mine asked for a perspective, to see what I thought of him. Hours later, after a burst of creativity and consideration, I created this poem and showed it to him. To accommodate for brutal words, I crossed out lines and phrases, but the poem itself still demonstrated the good and bad of his character in my eyes. Days later, he gifted me with a picture of his perspective. There was no malice in the image, no hint of my vices (which are plentiful). It remains one of my favorite illustrations. Still, guilt gnaws at me. While my apology may never see fruition, I do regret my coarse and brutal nature as much as I regret befriending his patience and kindness.
Alice Griffin Writes 