I do not speak,
    I listen.
I hear with my attention to detail,
Reading the paint like a storybook.
As my bristles graze the smooth canvas
I am told stories of pain, doubt, and regret.

I do not create,
    I am created.
The lines and shapes that appear beneath me,
Are the reason for my being--my purpose.
As the story unfolds at the touch of my tip,
I am born again with a new message to deliver.

I do not judge,
    I accept.
The sins and mistakes that drip down my handle,
Become strength and forgiveness when they strike the page.
As I am taken to the darkest corners of the darkest lives,
I am taught that we are not our mistakes--we are human.

I do not draw,
    I write.
My swift strands paint the story no one else can tell,
Which I speak through silence--my gentle caress my voice.
As I am pressed to paper I turn my thoughts into words
That do not need to be spoken to be heard.