Canvas Poem by Cloe C

Artists see everything as an open slate. I guess I am an artist. After all I draw pictures everywhere. Happy pictures defined with a red outline. Sad pictures that turn to white visible memories that never go. Every part of my body is a canvas. Every picture I make, never leaves my body. This blank canvas is running out of room to draw, so I write over other pictures. Summers are hard as critics notice my beautiful art work and judge. They only see messy lines while I see years of pain and sorrow. Every story is written with blood, books filled to the brim and pages saturated and soaked. Every page reminds me beauty has a consequence. Some times life doesn't turn out as desired. Sometimes hills turn into mountains and sometimes nights can be lonely sleepless and a fight for your life. But its all worth it, for every scar still shows, every piece of this canvas has been filled. I have died so many deaths and so many of my deaths my funeral was unattended. Now every time I plan on drawing I fight. I fight for the blood to stop flowing. I fight my canvas will be filled enough that it satisfies me. I fight that pain turns to peace. But I will only ever be a canvas. A canvas that can be filled more. But one day I will find an ocean that sings so beautiful that it masks every scream I have made in front of it. I will find the drawers that hide all the sharp things. And on that day the critics will stop judging and learn to love and appreciate my artwork.