”I just can't do it“ I said aloud
As I stared out into space
A paintbrush rested in my hand
Blue paint smeared on my face.

This painting has no value
I can not draw at all
And as I sat there thinking
I began to bawl.

Then the Painter came
And said ”My child, why do you cry?“
For you are not at all worthless
Now let me wipe your tears dry.

And after cleaning off my face
He covered my paintbrush in white
And with his soft, simple strokes
I began to see the light.

And as his strokes grew longer
My eyes were opened wide
For I realized I had a talent
A gift I could not hide.

This painting is not perfect
It has a beauty of its own
And it took the hands of a Painter
To let its beauty be shown.