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