The Blank Canvas and the Pallet

I was blank.

A colorless existence with nothing more than a mere outline to hold my soul steady,

An outline child only a mother could love.

I was the grey cloud that floated behind every rainbow, 

never to be noticed, never to be seen.

I lived day, by day in a world where darkness overshadowed the colors of my world,

Trapped with no means of escape I allowed myself to remain blank,


While everyone always overlooked me, she took interest in my blankness.

By no means was she an artist but to her I was a blank canvas, 

full of potential, full of availability.

To me she was a pallet full of exuberance so with a desire to be stained.

To be noticed.

For the first time in my existence, I allowed myself to be painted.

She dipped her brush into her soul and resurfaced with a shade of yellow and began 

to give meaning to my painful existence.

She dipped, dipped, and dipped each time with a new color she painted.

Until Iwas splattered, marked, and tainted with different shades of blues, purples,pinks,and yellows.

I was marked by every color in the world.


My colors shone  bright; Iwas no longer a grey cloud concealed by a rainbow.

Instead I became the rainbow itself,

and she remained a pallet repainting me with a stroke of her brush,

whenever my colors began to fade.

I was never again blank.


This poem is about: 


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