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I wish I could
slash anger across a canvas
that shrieks to be seen.
Or draw bare lines
whispering of loneliness
so that all who look
turn away with wet eyes.

I wish I could
paint joy in colors of the sun
with laughter pealing
from the end of the brush
so that hearts and the corners
of mouths are lifted.

But my paint-by-numbers hands
only copy laboriously
images conceived by another.

I content myself with words
and brush them across the page--
the only canvas I will ever paint.

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