The Artist

With the flick of your wrist and the stroke of my bristles,
We can achieve great color both bright and dull.
You reach for me in the time of need,
As if I'm the remedy that you seek.
Neither I nor time can fix your pain,
And I know you're suffering greatly.
You smile as if everything is alright,
But the wet strikes that lay upon your face reveal discomfort.
No words are spoken,
Just tears gently streaming.
A cry out for help is much too loud,
Leaving nothing but scars to tell your story.
With the fear of rejection occurring once again,
You hide in hopes of disappearing into thin air.
Instead of thinking of loved ones and that boy who made you feel.
You sit here holding me in your hand asking "Why me Father?"
Waiting for an answer,
A response from up above.
You pull me across your wrist time and time again,
Demanding Him for strength to put an end to your master piece.

- d.n