The brush poised, a question it holds,
Why does my canvas feel cold?
Colors swirl, emotions unfurl,
Yet silence echoes in the world.

Is it the stroke, too bold, too bright?
Or whispers lost in fading light?
Perhaps the theme, too dark, too deep,
No eyes to dive where secrets sleep.

Maybe the world craves shallow hues,
Sunlit smiles and morning dews.
My brushstrokes delve in shadows wide,
Where hidden truths with darkness hide.

But wait, dear heart, before you grieve,
Not all eyes miss what you achieve.
Though unseen, a seed you sow,
A quiet bloom for hearts that know.

A soul adrift may find your shore,
And see the depths you yearned to pour.
A tear may fall, a smile ignite,
For your unspoken, hidden light.

So paint, dear heart, with passion’s hand,
Let whispers dance across the land.
For even stars unseen by night,
Still guide the lost with silvered light.

One day, a hand may brush your own,
And whispers turn to songs unknown.
Then you’ll know, with tears aglow,
Your worth shines far, though whispers low.

So breathe, dear heart, and let it be,
Your art’s a gift, set spirits free.
And in the silence, find your voice,
A masterpiece, a silent choice.