The Canvas Calls

The colors dried

to cracked remains,

the brushes stiff

with years of dust.

I stood before

the empty white,

with hands that shook

from long disuse.

The fear rushed in

like winter wind,

reminding me

of past mistakes.

The critics lived

inside my head,

with voices sharp

as broken glass.

But something deeper

pulled me close,

a hunger that

would not stay quiet.

I mixed the paint

with trembling care,

each color bright

with second chances.

The first stroke fell

like shattered ice,

releasing something

kept too long.

The canvas drank

my careful chaos,

my mess of truth

and raw confession.

Hours passed

like breathing dreams,

like meditation

done with hands.

The piece emerged

not beautiful,

but honest in

its flawed becoming.

I stepped away

and saw myself,

not perfect lines

but living proof.

That starting over

takes more courage

than never stopping

ever did.