For years so jealous I have been
Of those who excel with the brush
And envy those who make beautiful
A blank slate with the slightest touch
I tried my hand at drawing
Tried my hand to hide results
And my attempts at painting?
Rembrandt would label them an assault
But then I found a pen
And in this pen there was some ink
I found a page of blank paper
And sat down before I could even think
The words, they flowed like rivers,
Streams of life for the soul
Feeding my every desire
To reveal stories never before told
I have no use for charcoal
No use for chalk or paint
And a canvas is too small
Mocking me with its constraint
My pen is my paintbrush
Blank pages my inspiration
For my words are my works of art
The beauty found in their formation