My mind is filled

like a finger paint canvas.

The colours, mixed in.

The designs, original.

The total result is

not what the artist intended,

yet, it still pleases

the inner eye.

 

The canvas is hidden with

secrets in its folds.

The secrets of

hidden inspiration

and stories.

The simple paintbrush

is made with experiences

that create the smallest dot.

 

The meaning of the art

changes upon perspective,

slowly molding itself to host.

The ending result is only seen,

never the endless hours of

consideration and decisions

which went into it.

 

My mind is a child's canvas,

a mix of nonsense to the

outside views.