My canvas is plain,
I hope it's sane.
I look to my left:
Colors performing a subtle theft;
white is now diminished.
So should my canvas be I wished.
I look to my right:
Her colors are too bright;
white is now diminished.
So should my canvas be I wished.
But why should either be my canvas?
So I close my eyes,
my thoughts give freedom cries.
I let out my imagination
and then see my creation,
it is not too mild yet not too bright;
It is just my sight.
This is the canvas I call mine.
YOU ARE READING
Imprints of Imperfection
PoesiaA series of poems that honour your bravery to wear your imperfections as battle wounds. Imperfection (n.): flaw or defect All rights reserved
