She began to paint one night,
Never having taken a lesson in her life.
She didn't know what she was painting,
She didn't really know how to either.
But she picked up a brush,
And began to speak.
Her bristles spelt out words,
Her colours make the canvas scream.
The works she had done before spoke the stories of her heart,
The tales of her memories.
Anyone who had seen her canvases saw genius,
Saw light.
But when she looked at them,
She saw nothing.
She knew what they meant,
Each story embedded in her brain.
Her pain, and her hurt,
There for people to critique.
And the paint she used,
Seemed so bare and bleak.
She had been so desperate for colour,
She had tried to draw it from her skin several times.
But no one knew,
And no one ever would know.
Because in the end,
the only colour she really wanted to see was black.
Because these greys she saw as she stared at her work,
Told her she would never be able to understand how beautiful her words were.
this was supposed to be happy but nothing really goes my way.