a blank canvas gawks at me,
waiting for me to dabble the paint,
but I don't.
the colors threaten me
their vivid ardor blinds my inert eyes,
as my zeal melts somewhere amid them,
I never dreamed on a full stomach of comfort, anyway.
the mature canvases are alien to me now,
I watch them ingrown with dust in my basement,
reminiscing when they used to be a 'masterpiece.'
now the paints are moldy, caught in webs,
the brushes lay scattered as my thoughts,
my canvas took sallow of my soul,
for you are what you bleed
I am what I bleed
I bleed what I am.