That Awkward “Good Job
So I paint a picture
of a real thing,
straight from the quiet thoughts of me
where color patterns live,
where light remembers where to fall,
And texture forms where I tell it.
And then someone I’ve known a lifetime
Meaning well, looks at it
like I’ve just pulled a rabbit
out of a hat I never owned.
“Good job,” they say,
with that tilt in their voice,
the one that lands somewhere between
praise
and
wait, you really did this?
It’s funny,
how strangers see my work
and talk about the composition,
the shadows,
the way the colors meet.
They see my art
without tripping over who I used to be.
But the familiar ones blink,
as if the years they've known me
never hinted at this part,
this quiet skill
I’ve been carrying like a pocket rock.
Their surprise embarrasses me a little,
like I’ve broken character
in a play I never agreed to act in.
Still, I smile,
because what else do you do
when someone finally sees you
but only after you’ve shown them
something you made
with your own two hands?
Maybe that’s the strange sweetness of it,
when art becomes the introduction
they never asked for,
and I never thought I needed.
wcd
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