Paintings can never be perfect.
A soft thin brush covers
Almost every white space to paint.
But paintings still has blurs.

Paintings can be the same.
Beautiful, it may seem, 
But under layers and layers
There's a monster that dreams.

The canvas that was once so white
Couldn't stay unpainted.
A soft thin brush soils it leaving, 
The pure canvase tainted.

Drawing on the white space to paint, 
A face comes out on sight.
Scrapes are what they seem to appear
Only there to give fright. 

The painting cannot be the same,
These marks became tattooed.
Despite cov'ring paint over paint,
The scratches potrude.

A soft thin brush sweeps the surface, 
Masking the cracks still seen;
Laying beneath coats of colours, 
The mistakes that have been.

The painting cannot be the same,
The face is rearranged,
But viewers can't see the difference;
Seen as if nothing changed.

The painting completely coloured; 
No more white space to paint
But this face on the canvas
Can't utter a single complaint.