Mental Canvas

I cannot brush paint on a canvas or draw. Am I even considered an artist at all?

I can say how the artist had brushed with her paint, in delicate words that describe her technique.

I know how to weave the world into wonders. I know what ways to describe all the colors.

I have practice in using my words for my charm, and somehow can beautifully raise an alarm.

I can change your emotions in the flick of a pen, or use my soft language to put you to rest.

I know that I'm capable of ways to describe the deepest sensations you can't bring to light without having some kind of loving commitment to passionate words and how you can share them.

I paint in the mind, all my words different colors. Describing, relating each one to another.

I give you the crimson of freshly bloomed roses that give off a fragrance that tickles your noses.

I weave through the yellow of honeycomb bees whose vibrance and buzzing are calmed by the breeze.

I dazzle my readers with tales of the blue, be it oceans or night skies where UFOs flew.

I bewitch all of you with the color of green as my potion shares shades with a frog or a tree.

You see, I can do all these things without worry. But am I an artist? The wonder concerns me.

An artist is one who can share a delight through a visual piece that your heart, it will strike.

But if my own colors are words on a page, can your mind be the canvas that I get to paint?