Pictures trickle out of my hand,
As images come from my demand,
I stand quite firmly on this land
As the brush paints my heart's command.
The strokes come softer here and there,
Sometimes I need to stop and stare,
At such marvel that I dare,
To draw upon this canvas bare.
There are no sounds all around,
Just birds chirping on the ground,
With every line I feel my heart pound,
And with my paintings I will astound.
I mix the blue, the green, the red-
As my hand, uncontrollably, is led,
Upon this virgin canvas that I've yet to bed,
So I draw what's in my head.
I, the painter, am now finished,
My tale of art is now completed,
I stare in amazement, quite astonished-
At the painting I have created.