I have a paintbrush,
With beautiful crimson paint.
I am a painter,
Well-known in this world.

I painted a picture everyday,
With beautiful scarlet paint.
People scrambled to find out who I was,
But they never knew.

They really liked me,
Always studying my work.
So I continued to paint,
With beautiful passionate red.

One day, I walked down the street,
And saw the people who liked my work
Surrounded by bright candles,
And a picture of my work.

I smiled.
They cried,
As they saw the brillant sangria
In my lovely work.

I was content with being,
Such a wonderful painter.
No one knew though who I was,
So they kept on trying to find me.

One day, I made a mistake in my work.|
The picture was wrong,
With deep maroon paint.
They scrambled to find me even more.

I cried.
They cried.
My work wasn't beautiful.
Even my husband didn't like my work.

I wondered if I could paint something else,
To make up for my horrible work.
I grabbed my paintbrush,
And wondered around to find something to paint once more.

Soon, I came across a lake.
I smiled,
And bent down.
I had found something to paint.

I quickly got to work.
It was different though.
It was painful.
But worth every stroke.

With one last cry,
As the last line of scarlet came out,
I smiled.
My last beautiful piece was finally done.

They soon came across my work.
They cried,
And studied quickly.
Amazed at the odd scarlet paint.

I smiled.
My last piece of work was done.
With my paintbrush in my limp hand,
My life as a painter came undone

*X*x*X*x*

Questions, comments, concerns? All are welcome.