So many thoughts,
so many ideas—
yet my mind is a void,
like a painting that hasn’t begun.

I yearn for beauty,
for colors to burst forth,
lighting this shadowed world.
But my mind is an expanse of white,
racing like a storm.

My senses are dulled,
yet I feel everything.
I see what could be,
yet I am stuck.

I am happy.
I am sad.
I am angry.
But I am also nothing.
I am blank.
I miss the colors,
I miss the light.

I miss the golden hues of a sunrise,
spreading warmth across the horizon,
the deep blues of a serene ocean,
whispering secrets beneath its waves.
I long for the vibrant reds of a blooming rose,
its petals soft yet fiery,
the soft greens of spring leaves,
dancing in the gentle breeze.
I want to see the lavender skies at twilight,
a canvas painted by the setting sun,
the rich, warm browns of the earth beneath my feet,
grounding me in its embrace.
I yearn for the dazzling white of fresh snow,
pure and untouched,
the playful oranges of autumn leaves,
whirling in a symphony of fall.

I want it all back.
I want to feel again.
I want to fight.
But I am so tired.

The canvas waits, silent and patient,
for the moment of transformation.
The promise of a masterpiece lies dormant,
potential waiting to be awakened.

I imagine the brushstrokes, delicate and precise,
each one a whisper of life on the canvas.
The artist’s hand, steady yet passionate,
infusing the canvas with vibrant emotions,
transforming the void into a symphony of shades.

And in the stillness of my yearning,
I realize I am the artist.
With every breath, a new stroke of color,
infusing life into my own blank canvas.
The void, once daunting, now brims with possibility,
turning the darkness into my masterpiece.

The final stroke, bold and definitive,
brings the journey to its peak.
The blank canvas no longer—
a vivid contrast of past and present.
In this culmination, I find my peace,
the masterpiece complete,
a testament to my resilience.