Sometimes as hard as I try, the blank canvas never becomes a work of art. I throw the paint and the tears and my dreams crashing into a coloured mess on the fabric and still, as always, Blank. Then I look back, as I stare down into my hands, The ageing of my skin and the roughness of it’s touch, I was born a canvas, to develop into that final product, the beautiful dream to be exhibited forever. I feel proud of the art I have created, every brush stroke, every mistake.
each canvas has its own beauty and style for god is its master... nice poem
life and its purpose likened to the canvass and its strokes well done
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Really nice 10/10!