I'm trying to paint with every color,
Write with every word,
But some colors don't make the story better
Some poems should go unheard.
The paper blank the canvas white,
The thought of what could be.
Nothing's clear, the choice is mine
To make from pain a tapestry.
Colors bloom, words collide,
The dance begins to find its form,
But while rainbows may last for a day
Some hands cannot hold through a storm.
As the final form begins to shape
Clouds peel back as if to say:
Wind and time shall not destroy
Strong convictions never sway.
