Writer

Beautiful colors washing over a canvas
By a hand trained in the natural art of paint
Gracefully floating over the clean white slate
Filling in the space with colors and shapes
From an imagination distinct with creation

How the young man standing behind
Wish he could create with such skill
With such beauty and imagination
That it would turn heads when presented
But no...he could never rise to such a task

His hands, though no different from the artist’s
Could not create the simplest piece…
They could not reproduce the beauty of land
Nor show the shine of the ocean on a sunny day
They could do nothing but stay at the lad’s sides

Day by day this lad stood, watching the artist work
Wishing down in his soul for the ability to create
To be loved for natural talent he wished to own
But no, this talent never came and the lads hopes died

One day as he sulked in his light deprived lair
A ray of hope showed him another path to creation
One with beauty and appreciation by the hand
But without the visual aid of his young eyes

He could only open the door to another’s imagination
And let them walk through to the vast nature beyond
He would not lead them like the artist before him did
But rather, create a door their own mind could open

He became the writer of dreams and creation,
The printer of mind and imagination,
The creator of beauty and the divine
He had found his hope once again