vague contours of fingerprints
caught in the colours, decorate
the white walls you were
oh-so-eager to cover

now the contrasts leer at you,
graduated into more advanced
mediums, fixing childhood
awkwardness with
the delicate touch
of a brush and
watercolours
which sink out of sight

step back,
and observe your work –
then the work of others around you,
sophisticated, personalized,
while you’ve blended
a handful of lovely colours
into a confusing mess
(with your hands, of course)

you know what you want now,
but with your hopeless base,
you can only stand still
and splash on
another layer of tears,
wishing you could
restart differently

then there’s me.
me, slouched on my stool,
staring at nothing with
blankness befitting the
blank canvas before me,
me, holding an unused brush
lamely, me,
a waste of
art supplies.

do you want to try again?
stride over with charisma
learned from genuine pain,
and convince me to let you
guide my hand

into creating your masterpiece


with my name on it.