The Artist

If something in the past can teach me,
I’ll look back to find it.
I swear I’ll feel brave someday, just not yet.
My heart stopped.
I’ve been cutting ties with emotion,
I’ve been trying to get by without devotion.
I didn’t want to feel or smile or,
better yet, didn’t want to have to learn to feel things again.
What can I leave behind that will never fade?
Where can I place my pride?
Where will I find something that feels sincere?
For every dream that I’m still trying to fill,
I’ve had to let go of countless more.
How do I know which ones to keep?
How do I know if it’s not too late? Why now?
I used to dream of being an artist;
the world needed paint as bright as my visions.
But love never shows it’s true colors,
the world reflected black so I painted myself.