Puddle [Poem]

My paper, my piece, my perfect art, I thought not complete, I can’t help but get the feeling that something’s out of place, that maybe, just maybe I etched out the wrong shape. I hurriedly lift my brush, hoping to fix it, the problem I saw, the problem that was never there. Driven by greed and desire, I wave my brush, trying to sort it out, trying so desperately to fix it, to make it whole. But to my shock, a drop of ink flies by the, staining the canvas, leaving a big, ugly, puddle of ink. I hated the look of it, I hated the look of it so much. The piece I had spent so much time on, so ugly, so hideous, an eyesore, all for the selfish reason that I wanted more. I sit there, on my stool, staring at the paper, at my tools, waiting for something, just anything, motionless, waiting to see, that maybe just maybe it wasn’t me, maybe it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. But it never looked any better. No matter how long I waited, and stared, no matter what angle I looked at it from, it was disgusting, so so disgusting, how could I have known I’d cause this, I just wanted to make it better, tell me it’s not my fault, tell me that it’s not ugly, please. But maybe you shouldn’t, it’s my fault after all, for trying to “make it better”, who cares about my intentions, the ink won’t wash away, ever, no matter what I do, the inks still there, that ugly puddle, just there, and I’ll have to live with it, for my entire life, it’s not like it’ll go anywhere else.