A canvass was given to me
one that has already felt the touch
from coarse bristles not of my hand that held it
it was meant to be untouched ere I could touch it
and my eyes saw not a white vastness;
more pure than snow
no, they saw the creation from a stranger
one of whom I should not know
And at first I felt sick to the core
who would change my painting to be
to pleasure their own dreams
...selfish little dreams
who would, with any heart, guide my hand
with their will
who would make me scream their thoughts
or when I amn't bended, make me still
But I gave in...
for what could I parry that was not,
for me, known as a threat
...this welcomed threat
to will their will upon me
a painted canvass they gave me
one that I had needed, had yearned for
I was blinded by what could be
And now I live by this
this canvass given to me
and I study the painting each and every day
to make sure that I am within another's will
this painting; black, cold, life amiss
and I in the middle, chained by the neck
what has become of me that I accept this
What has become of us that we accept this
Life is like a painting.We're the painter and every stroke is our leading path.Great job Elbert!
beautiful can I touch my fingers on your canvas too? awesome write -10 anjali
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Every man should have his own canvas, Every man his own thoughts to direct his own destiny. I can't be certain this is at least one message at the heart of this poem, but to be certain these are my own thoughts. Excellent Poem, Instant Favorite.