The blogs today carry an air of philosophy and sharing of ideas, and what it is we share. I wrote this poem to reflect that from an artistic perspective. For those who don't get poetry just pretend it's a short story.
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I took the stretched canvas 

placed it on my easel.

Stared at the blank space, 

realizing this could be a masterpiece.

This white woven cloth could be a message, 

a symbol or inspiration for thousands of years.

I was so proud of this great creation 

that was in my imagination.

The first few strokes contained my soul.

My soul was good, and I cherished it.

Feeling vulnerable,

I had to smudge to conceal it.

Under the splatters of oil, 

only the most acute and deserving could see my truth.

Next was the image,

the subject matter, 

the essence of my life experience.

I felt fire in my heart, 

my mind raced as it looked for just the right inspiration.

Pictures fluttered through my mind like a cinema scope, 

finally collapsing into a kaleidoscope.

Diamond shaped pixels tossed randomly about.

I tried to pick up the pieces,

puzzle it into some fixated image.

But, just like wind through the forest,

it rustled the leaves, fell silent and was no more.

I was trapped alive in my grave,

no longer capable of expressing 

my thoughts, my hopes my dreams.

How can a man live his life 

and yet not be capable of painting 

one single painting of his essence?

The paint was layered, 

no work of art ever created.

The texture was rich, 

but no one could feel my desire.

The years have passed

the paint now cracks and falls in decay.

It sits in a basement, 

and the mold slowly eats it away.

Many years can pass

before any man will learn his lesson.

It is not the portrait that he paints 

that makes him great.

It is his soul exposed and 

revealed within it that 

becomes the masterpiece.