Tirade from a Canvas

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Confused, puzzled - I am angered.
Angry - at the shadings of the skies above,
and at the crimson dawns that dim at sunset.

These fibers of thoughts in which - that I think,
and the textures of words in which - that I speak.
Are contrary - due to my cowardice, and longing for you.

I want to share the margins of my fabric with you.
Cry with you , laugh with you - and smile with you.

But the frustration - oh, such agony! - the pent up thoughts.
Art - refuses to leave my mouth.

So, in an obvious form of despair.
I continue this tirade - in ironic faith.
In hopes, that you can receive my feelings.

Until then - I will continue to wallow in self-pity,
and encourage myself - with the thought of professing my desires.
Then, beat myself - for the feeble, sleazy coward that I am.

For I am enraged, insane, and crestfallen.
Only a canvas am I, and for what must a portrait deal with.
To experience - a simple drawing of life.

I am imbued, now - in perplexity, and later - with rage.
Yet, I am a canvas - painted, with a deep passion for you.