My imagination is an empty canvas, I paint the world on

I sit here on my comfy bed, lights out, just the sunlight of early twilight through my window.

I gaze at the pale white ceiling, painting my thoughts all over it with the colours of imagination.

I struggle to decide, what picture to paint, thanks to my reckless brain.

Shall I paint it with inspiration for the world to look upon? To give them hope when they are about to give up.  

Shall I paint it with principles for others to follow? That would be useless, wouldn't it? In a world full of people who carry hatred in their hearts, mere words aren't enough. 

Shall I paint my heart out and tell the world how I actually feel? No, I can't think of someone who might be interested in that. 

Shall I paint my canvas about you? A picture describing all the pain you carry, explaining all the scars you have on your body and on your soul. 

It might be surprising for you that I know so much about you but trust me, I can understand even the smallest, the scariest of thoughts that pop up in your mind.

I remember everything you tell me and observe which you don't. 

Like that worn out bracelet of yours, you never take of. 

It used to be bright yellow, now it's just pale. 

Why don't you throw it away? What's the story behind it? 

Maybe it's a souvenir you took from a relationship you never moved on. 

Maybe it reminds you of your dad. Was it your birthday when he gave you this? 

It taints your beauty when you dress pretty let me buy you a new one. 

It won't feel the same as this, won't remind you of the moment you cherish so much. 

I still can't understand what thoughts you carry with that shabby little bracelet. 

Is it to you what writing is to me? 

Does it help you paint your own canvas? 

The sun is up, I gotta sleep. 

One more night passed and my canvas is still empty.