My Double-Edged Sword

Cool wet paint mindlessly manipulated by my long fingers across canvas,

Yet a maze of intersecting crossroads lie adjacent on the ground.

A pen firmly gripped in my hand, a tsunami of words flowing onto paper,

Yet earthquakes erupt the smooth roads.

Damp clay molded into a steady form, as my fingers knead life into a dull clump,

Yet forest fires are sparked and scarlet smoke signals trickle.

Pencils dance along blank paper, creating an infinite amount of lines and shapes,

Yet the bumpy charred remains of disturbed earth slowly morph back into an irregular shape.

Steady fingers adjust pools of watercolor, creating a mad swirl of colors,

Yet the limbs of trees crack off in the whirl of a storm.

A rainbow of dried paint encrusted into my nail beds,

Yet storm clouds gather over the permanently blemished land.

Skilled fingers give birth to works of art, expression seeping out of every piece,

Yet the Earth is forever marred.

This poem is about: 
Me

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