Sisyphus' Self-Portrait

Sketch marks haunt the edge of my eye line;
Some gouged into the canvas texture.
Some jessoed over so many times
The material fades, but cracks remain.

Paint covers only half…
The half that's gone, that's done.
Never to be touched again.

Brushes -- finest camel,
Single-haired opinions etch the detail
Softening the blow of contrast
Buried deep within pigment.

My eyes grow weary
With each passing stroke,
More paint than gravity can stand.

Will the frame hold? Fingers feel?
Will the time pass more quickly
If I don't paint?

Perhaps I should advertise?

I could put this monster over my bed
Or print t-shirts for the masses
Handed out for free
And wait for the one who gets me.

But creative endeavors are never sure things --
More crazy than truthful.

Perhaps the next stroke will bring it all together,
Circling the harmony that could be.
Rather than tilting the balance
To some believer that buys faith,
But finds indifference instead.

Tender, then hateful.
Pragmatic, then skilled.
No amount of planning
Can fill the void of my head.