A Misunderstood Understanding

Blank Canvas*

A blank canvas, purely white.
It sits on the stand, or lays on the ground.

It's waiting waiting waiting,
To be decorated and designed.

It's excited for the drawing,
The ones yet to come to mind.

This canvas material is not the only definition,
A blank canvas can be anything anything anything,
Just waiting to have a drawing.

There are walls and floors,
Windows and doors,
Blankets and pillows,
Tee shirts and dresses,
And so many more.

My favorite you ask?
Oh that's easy,
My favorite blank canvas is the one directly on me.

I've never lost it,
And I never will.

The canvas draping my body,
Hiding my organs and bones,
It welcomes cloth for covering,
More commonly known as clothes.

This canvas is my favorite,
So many ways to design.

There are colors, Black and white silhouettes,
There's jewelry and clothing.

But oh my favorite tool used to decorate this canvas,
Is the blade in my hand,
The one slicing through my skin.

Yes, my skin is the canvas,
And my blade is the pencil.

I create beautiful drawings,
Some others may call horrid.

They call them attention seeking and weak,
I say they're beautiful and defined.

Every now and again they fade,
So I have to redraw the lines.
The color gushes out,
My very favorite part.

The deep crimson red,
It fights with the pale canvas.

I think I'm off track,
I get too invested in my art,
The point of this poem,
Has gone someplace far.

Right now all I'll say, before I walk away,
This blank canvas of mine is wonderful in few ways,
But as I draw and design it becomes an apparent beauty.

These drawings become scars,
They never leave my body.
I look back at my canvas,
Wondering who made me.

I remember the want,
The want of blood,
The sight is beautifully addictive,
One none can escape.

My canvas is gorgeous as I continue to draw,
You can't take my pencil,
No one ever will.