I wonder, 

How much of my decisions dictate “who” I am

How much of me is a product of what I’ve done up until now

And if the me that looks back will see any resemblance

Where do visions go if you can’t externalize them?

How does one create without a means of expression

—

Everyday I stare at a blank wall

And Imagine every possible creation my hands can produce.

I think of how great it’d be to just charge at it;

To rub the paint on my fingers and just press play.

But somehow every time I lift my brush from my palette,

There’s not even a streak of paint.

Not a single color to pick up.

Why is there a brush and a wall if I have no paint?

Are you still human if there’s nothing there?

Is a person still a person if they can’t find a way to tell you;

To prove it… even to themselves?

How timid is the artist that leaves a canvas blank,

For fear that even the slightest touch will ruin what isn’t even there.

When will she realize that even [Untitled] is a name,

And a blank canvas, a picture.