If I have to put aside my words
Remove them from my mind
What is it that will remain?
Would my mind sit idle and still,
Layering the surface as thick as my skin?
Or would I simply think upon
All my emotions in another manner?
Like a writer turned artist
Where every one of my inhibitions
Turns to splatters of paint and color
Instead of words?
For my pen has been thrown away
And all that remains is a dusty canvas.