I am a canvas.

I wake in the morning, and I paint on a pretty picture

for the world to look at and judge.

Sometimes I muddle myself, and my painting is sloppy,

But at night, I wash myself clean-white,

And dream up ideas while chasing the moon.

I am a marker.

Everywhere I go, I leave speculations and connect dots.

Sometimes I draw out whole ideas, I help people swim.

I throw lifesavers into swampy minds.

And sometimes I am silent, still,

I like to watch my drawings flourish.

I am a book.

I am sassy, confident, ever-changing.

I am written in calligraphy, and revised with crayons.

I have so much to say,

But you can’t read my pages,

Lest you crack my spine

I am a person.

I have a face covered with clouds.

I like to swim to the mirror and drown in my reflection.

I don’t know what I look like, because I paint myself every day.

And I know how I think- I leave my ideations everywhere I go,

I know what I sound like, my pages turn for those who listen.

I am a white-faced phantom,

I am indifferent and quiet and solidly me.

And the prettiest picture I’ve ever painted

was the one without stencils or paints or pencils,

It was without lines or shading- a blank canvas of sorts.

It was me.