I have always been an artist.
I have used paint,
The tip of a paintbrush,
The oils and
The watercolors.

I have mixed the yellows
With the greens,
Touched the canvas,
Smelled the fumes.
I have always been an artist.

My paints, ready,
In front of a new canvas,
In front of you.
But, the colors
So foreign
The strokes
So heavy.

The canvas, cold
My fingers, shaking
My vision, empty.

This new painting,
Blank and screaming,
Frightens.
It is looking at me,
Boldly. And new.

I am blind.
With an empty hand,
I look at you,
Thinking,
I have always been an artist.

But, white, dry, and colorless
You remain.
And I question,
Am I still the artist?