Cycles of Beginnings

A canvas awaits, splashes of color and dream,

yet every brushstroke feels heavy and slow.

I start with a vision, but soon, I just scheme,

my thoughts half-formed, lost in a turbulent flow.

Layers of paint, like memories stuck,

half-covered whispers of what could have been.

I stand at the edge, where the courage is plucked,

as frustration settles like dust on my skin.

I’ll turn to the canvas, give it one more try,

but the promise of creation slips quietly away.

Each restart a cycle, with hopes set to fly,

yet I’m left with the longing, the urge to delay.