Your Canvass

We all have to paint sometimes, right?

Your regret is but a despised and renowned painting. 
You toiled and sweated at the birthing of it - 
yet it reflects only your worst efforts.
You try to forget, but no one else will let you. 
They all point, saying that it defines you.

Ugly.
Mistake.
Cringing.
Apathy.

Going back is neigh improbable.
You can not deconstruct your toils.
You can not erase the ink.
You can not look towards your future.

When all you see is your past.

The only way towards a non-bleak existence is to deny significance.
In that, lies another obstacle. 
To refuse the importance of your mistake would be a crime to yourself. 
Taking the cowards way out seems so much more contenting.

In the end, it is your canvass and your canvass alone.
You have made incorrect markings - surely this is true.
But so have others and this lies in lieu -
of why we all are different.
Yet more or less the same.

Author's Note

How did this poem impact you?