A canvas is lost if not for colour,
The colours are crafted to calm the mind,
Without this bloom my life would be duller,
If not for pleasure the brain would be blind.
My canvas is not a sheet of paper,
My brush consists not of bristle or hair,
I paint upon marks previously sculpted,
My artist paints to see something, somewhere.
I see no purple or lavender shade,
For when I stroke a fragrant potion flows,
The canvas is red for damage I've made,
I satisfy the need as the turmoil grows.
Artists are praised for expressing through paint,
But I am condemned for my style of art,
Every strike I craft leaves the world faint,
I'm an artist without skill, broken apart.
