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Sonnet No. 6
Upon the canvas lays a layer of paint—
A layer which hasn't dried yet. It's still wet
And miscible. My hands cannot accept
That what I've made is so imperfect. Haste
Makes imperfections—still, I try to trace
My brush across the lines I've drawn. Respect
Is not for me. Perfection has effects
That I don't want. Mistakes are what I hate
The most. The paint is dry. The pain is not.
I think it's time for me to let it go.
It's time to mix the colors—or to blot
Them out. What time is it? I think I know.
I dip my brush in water—touch the spot
And wet the paint again. I let it flow.
© Emilia Perseo Samuel Gaspar
#sonnet
A layer which hasn't dried yet. It's still wet
And miscible. My hands cannot accept
That what I've made is so imperfect. Haste
Makes imperfections—still, I try to trace
My brush across the lines I've drawn. Respect
Is not for me. Perfection has effects
That I don't want. Mistakes are what I hate
The most. The paint is dry. The pain is not.
I think it's time for me to let it go.
It's time to mix the colors—or to blot
Them out. What time is it? I think I know.
I dip my brush in water—touch the spot
And wet the paint again. I let it flow.
© Emilia Perseo Samuel Gaspar
#sonnet
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