The Canvas

I don’t need fixed, for I’m not broken.
Let’s rethink the story I’ve spoken—
A tale of hurt and shattered dreams
Can become a story that teems…
With life anew, born from the grave,
With dreams I never thought to crave.

My canvas clean, paintbrush in hand,
I start again—not what was planned.
And as I paint, I find new joy:
For what I paint is that little boy—
The one I lost while trying to be
Everything else except for me.