Ink Spills

As I pressed my brush to the canvas,
I released my heart.
My thoughts danced onto the page,
As my hand mechanically followed.
The midnight jar splashed,
Spreading darkness onto a fresh canvas.
Instead of calling it ruined,
I let the ink flow.
It twisted like a river through trees,
Slowly flowing all over the surface.
The thing about wildfires,
Is that you have to let them burn.
Sometimes it easier to let it run it's course,
Than to try to stifle it.
That is why I say,
"Canvas paints create the heart."


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741