Some days I'm a portrait of a sunset,
Blazing with color,
Full of life,
Full of ideas.
Other days I'm a blank page,
Dead of emotion,
Of happiness,
Of everything.

Why can't the words come to mind?
I can feel them all, just beyond my reach.
I can see the flush of life as I close my eyes,
But when I open them, I see only black.

In my mind, I'm as good as Picasso
Better, even.
I'm a master of the arts,
A whirlwind of life,
Of happiness.

But I opened my eyes
And saw myself surrounded in
A toddler's drawings,
Black and white,
Spiraling off the page,
Out of control.