The Dim Light

I'm working on an empty canvas,
It'll be filled with all the answers when I'm done with it,
I have my memories,
I have them here in my hands,
And this canvas will be filled with every one,
But it'll still be empty,

Ever since I could scrape up enough dignity to get up in the mornings,
My life has been a revolving door of questions,
But not about the world,
I dont seem to care about the world,
I found that so strange of me to think,
So I kept thinking...

If pain had a color, what would it be?
I want to know, so I can paint this whole canvas with it,
So maybe then it wont be so empty,
But why must I only remember the pain?
I seem to ask of it everyday, every time I didnt know what to do,
Or how to fix it,

I said I had all my memories with me,
Though I could never commit,
But they're here,
I dont need the pain,
The strife,
I dont need it,

So I dont need to know what color pain would be,
I know how it feels, so that should be enough for me,
I'm staring at this empty canvas, my open book,
And with my brush, I write all of my memories in splashy images,
And then I just stare at it, puzzled, thinking,
Why isnt it empty?