I keep thinking about the blank canvas that I haven’t touched 

Except for painting it black on a whim, uneven and rushed 

It sits there, stacked on top of another canvas my little brother painted 

His looks so vibrant compared to mine, all of the colors nicely acquainted 

His ten year old hands painted confidently, with bold strokes of orange and red 

So full of life, my canvas looks alone, forgotten, and dead 

How he paints so fearlessly without a bit of hesitation 

With no care in the world or the slightest obligation 

I think about how different our canvases are, separated by seven years 

He still has to much to learn about his upcoming fears, he still does not know of the approaching tears 

I’m trying to remember the times that I once had a mind that existed for a decade 

Unaware of the world I lived in, so naive and unafraid 

But that bubble I once grew up in is gone 

The world he once knew is done 

My seventeen year old expectations robbed by an illness 

His energetic ten year old life interrupted by stillness 

The paintings will stay placed upon our table 

Among the messy books that I swear to clean up as soon as I am able 

And we will remain in the four walls that keep us secure 

Forever haunted by spirits of the uncertain and unsure 

The paintings deserve their moment in the light

To be kissed by the rays that creep through our window’s sight 

To be mounted on the beige walls we are sick and tired of looking at 

We deserve an escape from this insulated habitat 

But mine is still unfinished 

Still looking gloomy and diminished 

How is it possible that a ten year old is more efficient than me? 

How can he be so bold and brave, while I quiver and flee? 

Should I paint a starry night sky? 

But I have never seen a night in that way, I would be painting a lie 

Should I paint spiderwebs and smoke to cover the uncertainty? 

Should I be like Charlotte, and spell out “HELP ME?” 

Do I meticulously draw it out first? 

Do I just rely on surprise, just waiting for the frustrated burst? 

Because they say all artists have some range of pent up emotion inside 

Frida, Picasso, Dali, exposing their souls with nothing to hide 

But I am no Frida, Picasso, or Salvador Dali 

I look at the world with jaded eyes, rejecting everything I see 

How I wish I had a ten year old’s eyes 

To see and enjoy life’s colors again without questioning it’s lies 

To create a world of screaming vibrancy while trapped by the silent beige wall 

To be consumed of exhaustion that makes the eyelids fall 

How I wish to live like a ten year old again 

To paint red and orange in a dreary den 

But I keep thinking about the blank canvas I haven’t touched 

Except for painting it black on a whim, uneven and rushed.