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.