Sometimes as hard as I try, the blank canvas never becomes a work of art. I throw the paint and the tears and my dreams crashing into a coloured mess on the fabric and still, as always, Blank. Then I look back, as I stare down into my hands, The ageing of my skin and the roughness of it’s touch, I was born a canvas, to develop into that final product, the beautiful dream to be exhibited forever. I feel proud of the art I have created, every brush stroke, every mistake.
Jacob Andrew Jarman
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-am-a-canvas/
