True Canvas

An artist’s canvas is never blank,
But the story itself, inward it sank.
It sank deep down, into the pages heart,
My job now is to uncover it, or in other words, art.

I sit in front of this blank page,
Wishing that my mind was still unclouded and sage.
The story underneath is one of great sorrow,
About a lonely little girl, never living to see tomorrow.

How to paint it, how to paint it, I ponder this,
Paint a broken face that anyone could miss.
She’s a girl like cellophane, lost and alone,
Living in a rickety house where the floorboards groan.

Should I paint her inside? Or in another scene?
I think in her house, but make it like a dream.
A dark little spectacle is what she might be,
And the truth in the picture shall be hard to see.

Making out the lines, I create the image of mine,
The pencil markings made so perfect, you could say they were divine.
I pick up my paint brush, ready to begin the work,
But it was at this moment that a dark thought occurred.

This little girl, is exactly like me,
And that image is one of where I used to be.
I put down my paintbrush and pick up the blade,
Used to sculpt away, but this time the cuts would be made,

I grabbed it and slit my wrists the crimson river returns,
And on the canvas I splatter it, the lump rising in my throat burns.
My finest work yet. The pencil lines barely seen,
The canvas covered in my blood, my wounds unclean.

I bled myself dry, for the sacrifice of my art,
Finally a picture made that was straight from my heart.