A Willing Muse to Deconstruct

Your sleeping face and especially your glossy black mop of hair streaked with gray defy any talent I might’ve possessed of drawing and sculpture before I was put away, yet you are the muse I return to time and again when I’m forced to do crafts to relieve my stress because you don’t say my efforts are disgusting-I’ve drawn your teeth into thousands of dollars with a stick figure George Washington sloppily drawn onto each of their worth in dental work, I’ve misaligned your jaw, I’ve painted a grimace when I meant to paint a smile…and you cock your real live head into an art collector’s stance-you hold my poor and revolting mimicry up to the light and pretended to inspect them before granting generously that I’ve done a lovely job, brilliant in fact, and condone my efforts to keep on drawing, keep sculpting, keep trying

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