Burn Away (long and boring)

*Please read through whole poem.*

There is nothing here but a blank canvas of white,
There is no picture ahead, no goals are in sight.
There is nothing to think of, nothing I can create,
There is not even an option for me to debate.
I cannot find a colour that seems just right,
The correct place to start is no where in sight.
I hold my brush, with the most unsteady hand,
I shake and I quiver, its getting harder to stand.
The room is colder than it was before,
I run to the edge of the room, and shut the door.
I splinter my finger, pain and little blood, but not much,
I trip and the white canvas with my bloody finger I touch.
This is the beginning of this picture of mine,
Created by a pain that is so very fine.
I steady my grip, I can control my hand,
I no longer have trouble, trying to stand.
I paint a small picture of a flower, a rose,
This flower made from the blood I had spilt, which nobody knows.
I have covered my pain with a beauty to eye,
And above this rose, I paint a blue sky.
I feel a breeze from the window sweep in,
The cold makes me shudder; a small raindrop touches my skin.
There are more raindrops that follow, some smear my blue sky,
I cannot help but wondering why.
I close the window, as I did the door,
The table is wet, so I move to the floor.
Now I am left with a smeared happy day,
The blue sky has partially faded away.
But still, there is a clear view you can see,
And this smudge is no disappointment to me.
I move on, and I add some more blue,
I repaint my rose, and I cover the blood my body had drew.
I paint some more, I add some green trees,
The power goes out, and I hope to find a candle with ease.
With a flick of my lighter, the room brightens up,
I take a deep breath and a drink from my cup.
I finish the forest I had started to grow,
And at last I could see my effort starting to show.
I pick up one of the candles; it is time for a break,
The paint is wet now, but to dry, a short time it will take.
I walk around, I stretch, and then I hear a boom,
A large clap of thunder has shaken the room.
A candle has fallen; the picture is starting to burn,
I figure at this point, there is no reason for concern.
The painting is ruined, there is no point anymore,
I watch it crumple up on the floor.
But now I see all my work was in vein,
And there is nothing that can compensate pain.
I will no longer suffer and try to be,
Something I cannot understand or see.
And I will let my blank canvas of white,
Burn and crumble away in the night. .
And I’m tired of living this life…
And I’m going to let it burn, like the picture I made.
Because there’s no reason for life, nothing left to be saved.

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