I am an artist, painting smiles on faces,
Bringing joy to the world, filling empty spaces.
But on my own canvas, a different scene unfolds,
An unpleasant surface where ink rarely molds.

It's ironic how I bring color to others' lives,
Yet my own canvas remains untouched, deprived.
The brush hesitates, unwilling to leave a mark,
As if my own existence is lost in the dark.

But perhaps there's beauty in this untouched space,
A rawness that holds a different kind of grace.
For the canvas that yearns for color and ink,
Can inspire empathy, making others think.

In my imperfections, there lies a unique art,
A vulnerability that touches deep within the heart.
For it is through our struggles and untold pain,
That true empathy and compassion can reign.

So, as I paint smiles upon each sad, empty face,
I find solace in knowing my own canvas holds its place.
An artist with an unfinished artwork, it's true,
But a story that speaks, creating a different view.