I carry my palette, paint of all shades,
Tints galore lie in puddles arrayed.
I dip in my brush and carefully swirl,
Lift it up, out, and on canvas twirl.
Red splashes out, painting the art,
Of sharing and caring, and also of heart.
Then, possessed, twitches across,
Blood and war as on stone embossed.
Wash out the stains, of battle, of sword,
Running out fast, 'til all that is stored,
Left in the brush, steadfast and true,
Is scarlet passion, stuck on like glue.
To make up for color, stuck on so tight,
I mix in some yellow to make it just right.
Orange is made, swift and quick,
The brush comes out, a painted stick.
Slapped on the canvas, it reminds me,
Of the leaves transformed on a tree,
When in comes autumn, and I'm transfixed,
By them cascading, 'til leaves and dirt mix.
The paint follows suit, falling right off,
And I stand watching, wanting to scoff.
Why couldn't passion have come off like this?
Does hope not stand strong, as strong as bliss?
Continuing on, to yellow I return,
Happy-go-lucky, without a concern.
Across the page splatters, some here, some there,
And a substantial amount ends up in my hair.
All over my room, the color, it went,
I knew immediately the time to be spent,
Cleaning up this ecstatic tint,
And the remainder of its sudden sprint.
Sighing, I waited, to see what was next,
Wondering what thoughts my canvas complex,
Will bring out of the people who carefully view,
My work, though they will have not a clue.
Carefully blending blue with the yellow,
I had created a hue much more mellow.
Waiting to see the explosion, my strife,
I look at what happens, the start of new life.
Orange leaves return to their pure summer shade,
And the canvas from death into living is made,
The vibrancy shows throughout all of my art,
And all of the logic here seems to depart.
Staring in awe at my impossible creation,
My head is filled only with strongest frustration.
My project I never shall ever complete,
For its as if my paint were quite obsolete.
Everybody else got paint that remained,
Stuck on the canvas, permanently stained.
I get stuck with various hues that love,
To grow on the page, and fall from above.
Dipping in water, the brush is then cleansed,
Leaves and twigs to the ground descend.
Proceeding, I fill it with blue, so pure,
Mysterious like the ocean, very obscure.
Constantly dripping, water falls down,
While I struggle to paint all around.
Relieved that this had not been the worst,
I mixed in some purple, and remained alert.
The indigo, colored like a twilight sky,
Contrasted well with the hues nearby.
Shy and reserved, it filled up the space,
Though unnoticed through its quiet embrace.
Quickly returning to the near empty palette,
I place the brush into the last on my ballot.
Violet is spread on the canvas with care,
And seeps into unfilled crevices there.
Seeing that my work was now complete,
I set down my tools and stared at the sheet.
Awed at what I had just now begot,
I laughed at the rainbow made without thought.
Please do review and critique this. I want to know what I should work on in my poetry. Thanks!
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