I was a canvas and you had paints.
I told you to paint me bright but you left me as I was,
saying that the most beautiful things were raw.
And I never understood you meant me so I allowed other people to leave marks.
And they did.
Now I'm an array of disillusioned colors and I can't ever remember feeling so *****.
I have layers of other people's burdens and I can't find myself beneath all this suffering.
I think I need you now.
I need you to find me another canvas so I can see that although I'm stained,
I am not as I seem.
That beauty can be found within the chaos
& colors are simply colors;
they do not paint stories, people do.
I am not simply a canvas but an array of things.
I can be a sunrise, or a sunset, or whatever I wish.