Often confusing

Canvas

The saddest canvases are those only you see.
Empty white worlds waiting to be filled by me.
Voids that fill with color as I see,
And yet it still lies unfinished, a barren sea.
I see what they don't, those many things,
The blooming flowers and neon rings.
I see what there be, what there should be,
Anything but this thing.
A canvas, white as sin.
Hands that tremble as they move.
Hours pass, yet nothing more.
A world of beauty flows in me,
Yet under my hand is nothing to see.
A hundred oaths, and more so souls.
What I shall give to set it free.
A raging storm, a cyclone full,
Yet not a drop, borne out of me.
Still dry that canvas, as white as me.
Mocking, gentle, coarse and free.

The saddest canvases are those only you see,
And where ever I look, I find my sea.
Reflected as though the world a mirror be,
Or maybe a canvas, still white and bleak.
So much paint to spill, so much time to take,
Yet not enough of me, not enough to reach.
And I leave thee; sad and free,
A canvas for another, but art to me.