I waited for that someone,
who could sweep me off the ground.
For that white canvas wonder,
who would always be around.
My paint set ran empty
on dirty papered sins,
spent my mornings with the doctor,
prescribing Norpramins.
When pills were not the answer,
I looked to something new,
to spending nights with strangers -
who never came close to you.
You dragged me up the ladder,
and back into reality.
You stopped me feeling stupid,
and sketching emptily.
Suddenly you were my muse,
my plain canvas boy,
instead of drawing out mistakes,
I only painted joy.
You stopped me thinking clearly,
about the page ahead.
And made me much more open,
and took me to your bed.
My art is now abstract,
and random and indescribable.
You made me, you made my paint -
my empty canvas, beautiful.
