Hands covered in paint,
blotted fingers with peeling,
chipped nails. There is a story
to tell, maybe a secret
The brush can lead you too
soon to the final chapter.
Pace yourself, stroke lightly.
Study what you reveal, and
leave nothing unsaid.
Go back and tell them again.
Darken the line, the paint will speak
for you if you let it. I am bold, I am sad,
I am beautiful.
Expose the things you hide, things
you’re too afraid to say out loud.
Let the canvas be a soulful messenger
holding dear the paint that is
your gentle muse.