Beethoven plays in the background as im painting in the large canvas.

Im putting all of my feeling and all of my sadness.

Every stroke glided onto the painting is the emotinons I kept in its practice.

I close my eyes as the painting seems to take life as my own madness.

As I wash the brushes, the paint and my feelings seem to vanish.

I step back to sturdy my canvas and all I see is the damage. 

The painting pours out its feelings, showing all its weekness.

All that was kept hidden, has been shown, no more secrets.

The image of a broken soul looks back at me as I look at the painting.

The scars, the tears, the heartbreak is all in framing. 

I don't want the paint to cover my sadness, I want some saving.

Paint drips down my fingertrips.

It leaves it's marks behind, daring me to forget.

I could never forget, because all that the canvas does is reflect. 

I tainted a mural on my face, I confess all that all I do is pretend.

Sometimes all I want is for everything to finally end.

But then Beethoven plays in the background. 

And the canvas begs for me to paint, to clean my wounds. 

The paint and the pain makes me feel like im drowning. 

Now all my mystery is on the large canvas.