Home for me is darkness
where I can't see but only think.
Reality paints a picture
with frailed brushes and dried ink.
I have a rich eye
for the most beautiful art
so I've done away with scribbles
and the editing part.

I'm scared of ink running free
and bleeding into a depiction of me.
I even struggle with the pristine version of me
that's crafted by my discretion
yet I see it and ask questions.

Why am I painted in shades
of grey, black and blue?
I hope to see my life unfold
but regret it as I rue
the persistance I put upon wondering
instead of going forth and wandering.

I'm left in my life to discover
instead of have it uncovered.
I need no brush or a pen,
just a heart and a new life to begin.