Letters I Can't Send

The Pencil

The Pencil

I don't know where to start, my canvass is still empty
Like my bland, bland heart, the interiors were dusty.
The paints were colorful, yet unerasable.
If I use colors to cover my whites,
I'm afraid that I will make a mistake.
The fear of mixing colors that don't go together,
Make accidents that interfere my rights,
With that, slowly I lost my diligence.
Thus, I stop letting anyone tamper my innocence.
The clarity of the hues, the blues, like you're not near,
Spring breaks loose, so does fear.
Like horrors, the pictures haunt,
'Tis the season I don't want.
Yes, I used the pencil, like the others.
Yet, I'm afraid of making errors.
But when the strokes left bold marks,
I know that this was made from trees and barks
No more fear of making mishaps.
I stood back and applaud myself
Behold, the work of art made me teary!
Never more I let ourselves grow weary.