The Painting Poem by R.S. Farris

The paint stains my fingers and cakes on my palms;
You stand behind me, watching silently.
The outlines are rough, and the color's all wrong-
What beauty could You ever see in me?

I've ruined my canvases so many times;
You sadly watch as I begin again.
It's the same as before, as I knew it would be-
You've told me, but I never seem to learn.

In my final despair, I at last turn around-
You've been waiting all this time, so quietly-
At last, I admit that I can't paint at all!
You take the brush, and I begin to see...