The artist smiles upon his creation.
What once was a blank page is now a colorful explanation
of the love he never felt.
of the tears he never held back.
of the talent he never lacked.
As time passed on, he would stay behind.
Always locked up in his room, his pages would remind
of the times he could not think, because the love felt so thick.
His thoughts no longer restricted, because the love faded just as quick.
Still time passed on, still he sat and painted
all the feelings he couldn't tell, all the pain he hated.
The world has forgotten of his heart.
Eyes never witnessed the naked cries behind his art.
Still alone and locked away, he sits atop his stool.
Painting feelings never voiced, else they'd consider him a fool.
Growing old and pale, he slips away that night.
To the lost love he never found, he whispers out "good night"
Leaving behind his final thoughts through art, a page of empty white.