The Artist At Hand

When I first began it started with my hands,
Dipping into basic colors with tiny fingers,
Innocent and amateur scribbles
Are thrown across construction paper.

I would hang it on the fridge
For praise and recognition.
Even though it appeared to be horrible,
My parents thought it was good.

That is what inspired me
To continue to paint-
Dedication and frustration
Took me to a different place.

First, I copied pictures,
Then images began forming in my mind,
Creating a story of my own,
One day at a time.

Now, I spread vibrant colors
Carefully on a canvas,
With the hope of hanging it in a museum,
For everyone to see.