I want to be a watercolor painting,
Blended so beautifully with colors,
And no lines to tell me who I should be
Or where I have to end.
I’ll be anything I want,
And I can even drip off the edges of paper,
Cascading beautifully onto wooden work desks,
With colors bound by no boxes.
If I was a waterfall, I’d face the gates of Hell,
And drown it with incessant pools of crayon box colors.
I’ll stretch the arms of my unstructured figure,
Till I have touched and traced the Heavens with tips of sun-setted fingers,
And even then my color will spread, tinting the clouds pink.
I am bound only by an endless imagination.
I will create the morning, night, and afternoon day in and day out.
It will rain with the flowing of my tears and the whisk of my brush.
It will flood with the glorious circulation of pastels on dirty brushes.
I will create life with a single upward motion, and it will encompass the earth,
Dispersing my imagination,
So that everyone will see just how beautiful I am.