The Canvas

My life is the canvas, and I am the brush,

I paint everything I  touch or see,

It’s hard for you to understand my complex strokes,

But, it means the world to me,

I make twist and turns, and even swirls,

Just to make my, canvas complete,

It’ll take a while,

But I don’t complain,

‘Cause the decision is up to me,

The way I paint,

Is a form of style,

Original in my own little way,

I’d shoo you away,

If you try to stay,

Because,

You would never think,

I did it of course,

But I promise you,

You’ll never see,

Such a painting,

anywhere,

From here, to there,

Let it be!

Just here,

I am my own little source,

No one will ever find

me,

No, I am not hiding,

Pleading or crying,

I am so far, but,

Yet, so close,

like  the stars above,

Or a beautiful dove,

But, they always seem to flee,

I am as close,

As I can possibly be,

Except,

You need eyes to see,

The canvas that presents,

my whole entire life,

But but here’s a bargain,

there’s price,

You must keep this, only,

Between you and me,

Now take a peek,

At my little painting

And tell me what you see?

 
This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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