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Pure canvas
September 21, 2023
The pure canvas
Sits on the easel, wobbly
The painter, me, begins
The pure canvas,
Turned silver so fast,
It was hard to notice the
RED.
Stuck on the brush,
No white or pink came,
Just pure red
It slivered down the canvas
Dripping.
Never stopped.
But.
once finished, the painting hung there
Still, and calm, no one came to look at it
No one bothered to see its silver and red colors
No one bothered until it changed to pink and white
More pure
The pure canvas
Once again pure
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It my own form of poetry about my life dealing with self-harm, written in a way young kids could understand.