Everyone is born blank.

Colorless, without defining uniqueness.

Then life starts

And the paint enters.

Sometimes it is hurled

Forcefully onto the canvas

Leaving an ugly stain

To be covered up (somewhat) over time.

Sometimes hues are carefully dabbed on

To create an image

Purely cosmetic.

Sometimes the brush slips

Or the wave of paint

Misses the mark,

Creating a wholly individual trait

That people remember

When they exit the museum

Of human identity.