I have pure intentions.
Spinning straw into gold,
my fingertips bleed
with pure intentions.

Cold hands, shaking hands,
hurt when they touch.
Smudging charcoal fingerprints;
evidence of failed attempts.

I had bright eyes,
hope in my lungs;
I had a clean slate,
promise of prosperity.

I smear my slate,
a ravaged canvas,
a painter without soul.
Brush strokes of dissonance.

If one were to look
just long enough,
they might see the hope,
the salvation I couldn't reach.