With Strength,

Dear Pencil Sharpener,


I once was a painter.

An artist with beautiful abstract art under her name,

A creator.

I had the talent to surface pain with my work,

And brought tears to the eyes.


I was not known by many,

Yet my existence was acknowledged-you see,

People knew who I was.

They just didn’t see what I did in my spare time.

They didn’t see the nude canvas being stripped of its blankness;

They didn’t see the colors blend and flow into a single shade of maroon;

They didn’t feel the warm paint on their skin.

All they saw, all they felt

Was emotion in a painting,

A work of art.


What a work of art I am,

Faded lines across my skin,

Not a masterpiece but something.

I have no price tag,

But that does not mean I have no worth.


I’ve put the paintbrushes somewhere they can’t be found.

I’ve washed all the paint away,

And while my work may stay,

I stand before you



With strength,


This poem is about: 


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