I See a picture,
Dear with color bright.
Its whimsical strokes,
A smooth, but lovely, Sight.

I Smell the paint,
A sense not faded yet.
Like prints left exposed,
With the trail's fine Scent.

But underestimated, the Tool,
And ability to express
The ideas my head
Conjures as a coordinated mess.

Yes, the paintbrush,
Much simpler than I,
Yet it works its hardest,
While I don't even try.