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A poem I wrote about being an artist Kay L. Schlagel
27 septembre 2004


The brush loaded, I bravely touch the canvas, at first barren and cold.

The color flows and it's surface fills with colors as shapes unfold.


My imagination goes from somewhere deep in my mind through to my hand.

Magic begins as the color and brush strokes come together to form the land.


This is the feeling of creation, watching as your masterpiece starts with a hopeful heart.

Mixiing of colors to just the right shade with practiced strokes as miracles start.


Sometimes the paint flows smoothly and the brush strokes perfect as a beautiful painting forms.

But a bad day, a missed stroke, a color off, and your brush refuses to perform.


Fickle is the mistress we artists serve; but for every painting covered or hidden in the corner.

Even more beautiful paintings with perfect hues hang proudly in places of honor.


Kay L. Schlagel


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