Blank Canvas

They say your life is a

Book

For some

It is a book left

Wide open

For all to see

For others

It is a thick

Leather-bound assortment of pages

Held fastened by a lock

Some have illustrious illustrations

Of exaggerated tales

Others are decorated with

Tattered edges

And minimal narrations

Mine is neither beautiful to the

Wandering eye

Nor distasteful for the pretentious to behold 

Mine is more like a

Blank Canvas

In the middle of a rundown 

Art gallery

Nothing to see

Nowhere to hide

Stimulating no visual

Or emotional appeal

Yet still stirring up 

Some sort of

Curiosity

And forced interest

An empty painting

A blank soul 

A pictureless picture

Leaving more questions

Than providing answers

Clear paint

Saturates the canvas

As it outlines my

Narrative

Tears fill my pallet

And become the paint

To display my story

Telling it all

And leaving nothing out

Yet

Saying nothing at all

Secrecy and encryption

At its finest

I am not an open book

Yet I am fairly easy

To read

Posed like a riddle

Yet the answer already known

A mystery that was already solved

Long before my relevancy

Blank canvas

On display

For all to see

Open to your own

Interpretation

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