[Untitled]

Everyday I stare at a blank wall

And Imagine every possible creation my hands can produce.

I think of how great it’d be to just charge at it;

To rub the paint on my fingers and just press play.

But somehow every time I lift my brush from my palette,

There’s not even a streak of paint.

Not a single color to pick up.

Why is there a brush and a wall if I have no paint?

Are you still human if there’s nothing there?

Is a person still a person if they can’t find a way to tell you;

To prove it… even to themselves?

How timid is the artist that leaves a canvas blank,

For fear that even the slightest touch will ruin what doesn't exist.

When will she realize that even [Untitled] is a name,

And a blank canvas, a picture.