The pictures on my canvas are the sorrows of my past.
The joy I felt ten years ago has already been said.
The fears I'll have tomorrow are in the work ahead.
The rages of betrayal, the sting of insults dared,
the smile of a baby, the smell of ocean air.
The russle of the leaves above, the racing of my heart,
the bitter pain and emptiness when loved ones have to part.
I may not have the will to tell you any of these things.
But my brush conveys the power of a thousand lofty kings.
It finishes my sentence, reminds me of my goal.
It sings the sweetest melody, it fills the empty hole.
