No more ice cubes cold,

no more papers torn,

No more pens to hold;

my own deceit's scorn.

A cold metallic brush

and the colour of wine

against pinkish canvas flush,

creating an elegant line.

Masterpiece - every picture drawn,

making my own addictive gallery.

I'm painting dusk till dawn;

for others though, it's a mystery.

Here and now, I look around

for artists like me, secret.

Sadly, no one wants to be found,

our creation - we need to keep it.

With less-than-nobody to share;

still painting more and more,

running out of canvas to spare;

I'm left with my thoughts alone.

Help; I don't want to paint anymore.