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.