im sick of wasting paint.
canvas that falls apart under a brush.
whenever i start painting, you just crumble away.
i wash my brushes clean of this and you.
buy a bunch of bright colours,
paint myself into something real.
dripping down the page,
brushstrokes like wind.
the canvas is my earth,
but it can be destroyed in many ways.
washed clean, or set ablaze.
crumple it up,
and start again.

i have a collection,
of paintings i keep hidden in a vault.
only my favourites find their way in,
locked up for nostalgic purposes,
and in hopes that my inspiration will return.

you, canvas.
dont become a waste of time.
you, canvas.
stay locked up in this world of mine.

painted colours across your sky,
breathing life into every blade of grass.
mountains and seascapes, boats at your shores.
cities at night and trains passing by.
you erased the wings from every bird in the sky.