Canvas

We all have stood in front of a canvas, be it a proper canvas, or a piece of drawing paper. We all have wondered or pondered, what to draw? What shall I paint? Will it look nice, if I tried this? Thes

The bleak canvas,
Stares back at me
It’s melancholic barrenness,
Searing through the deepest parts of my mind.
My eyes, skim through the plain white cloth,
With each passing moment, they grow pained
The emptiness, eats me from inside,
I have the urge to splatter paint across the dull landscape,
And hence be spared from this pain,
Of seeing a rock, which is not yet a sculpture.
I am no sculptor, yet, the chisel rests in my palm.
My hands, tremble as I take the brush.
For fear of ruining this future masterpiece, rules me.
I close my eyes and relax,

And as I open them,
The bleak canvas,
Stares back at me
It brings forth a vibrant shade of emotions
Each emotion through a colour
My hands haphazardly paint their way through the canvas.
Strokes unlike a conductor’s baton’s movement
But more like a blood-thirsty beast clawing at entrails.
I am not a good painter.
However my emotions have bested me,
And I step back to see my work
Unrecognizable now.

The bleak canvas
Which stared back at me
Wintry, and empty,
Barren and dull,
A shade of white monotoneity
Is now filled with vibrant hues
Of life and emotions.