On canvas of my life,
with its winding road,
I have often carried a backpack.

A rucksack gathered from bruises
other people inflicted
making me feel insecure,
worthless, and ugly.

I carried it for years,
where crying self to sleep was norm.
Where blinders were on
causing my canvas brush of life
to be painted with grays,
blacks and bleeding red.

But now, I wipe canvas clean
with eraser of love.
Beginning to paint in breath.
To dip my feet like brush in dance
swirling with grand energies of love.

Dance painting rainbow colors
to inscribe life as I move
knowing who I am
divine and sacred.
Thusly I paint grandly,
into the forest of my dreams.