Challenge
Write a poem about something you have no control over and how that lack of control makes you feel.
[Untitled]
Everyday I stare at a blank wall
And Imagine every possible creation my hands can produce.
I think of how great it’d be to just charge at it;
To rub the paint on my fingers and just press play.
But somehow every time I lift my brush from my palette,
There’s not even a streak of paint.
Not a single color to pick up.
Why is there a brush and a wall if I have no paint?
Are you still human if there’s nothing there?
Is a person still a person if they can’t find a way to tell you;
To prove it… even to themselves?
How timid is the artist that leaves a canvas blank,
For fear that even the slightest touch will ruin what doesn't exist.
When will she realize that even [Untitled] is a name,
And a blank canvas, a picture.
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