Canvas

Every person is born a person.

A canvas for humanity to paint on.

The abstract lines of red emotion, the yellow undertone of experience, the dramatic maneuvers of blue desire.

And life being the paint brushes. Lunging and throwing constant challenges onto the canvas. Splattering and in perfecting its once simplistic exterior.

Then before you know it, the paint brushes splatter enough red and blue together to create an entirely new color called purple. You have never seen purple before, been through purple before, but your optimistic for the next new things to come.

Then through a few years your canvas now has an array of new colors to symbolize the basic lessons you have learned and earned from.

But now the paint brushes multiply, into many new big, small, shapes and size. Each distinct new colors on the canvas develop new shades, new versions of they're former singular paste.

You use these new tools to paint new designs. Polka dots, zig zags, all latticed with growing vines. And in more years time, you come to terms with your individual unique kind.

You continue to grow and ravish in fresh divine vines. So green, so keen to the eyes of the beholder of the canvas. In its hands they grasp, the entirety of its righteousness. And they truly see, all the canvas was meant to be.

Not placed on a shelf behind vases of poppies, or the caged cabinet surrounded of rum.

The canvas's pigments don't deserve to fade by the dimming collection of dust's barricade.

But the canvas sits on aged heirloom cloth.

It changes locations occasionally. But by its own choice it is not.

The canvas moves on the decidedness mind of humankind.

Much remorse fills the canvas because of this.

You see, this canvas was special. And held so much potential.

So many places it was meant to be, meant to be seen and admired, applauded and inspired.

This canvas was destined to be set in front of thousands of eyes, who held no intent of reprising its beauty, or spiting its surfaced colorants.

But never got the chance.

The chance to be set on a wall with lingering eyes of charm, and watch as people dance, laugh and thrive while the canvas's paints are alive.

Instead it sits behind shaped glass, the painter in a loop of hopeless protest to this mess.

And since the canvas has of no arms or legs, it stays and stays and stays and stays.

In its place, until its elegant paints decay.

And the canvas's once lively colors take place by shades of grey.

And the painter coats the canvas in an even lacquer of white paint.

But while the possibilities of the canvas's new scheme may not be the same, the painter paints the canvas again.