The Prideful Paintbrush

This young paintbrush, painted a few pictures..

Beautiful no doubt, but not all to his liking..

Took to his heart that the pictures were his own..

Elated with the nice parts, sad with the harsh parts..

Another paintbrush, older and well used..

Seeing the predicament of the young one,

Sitting confused..

Felt moved with compassion and with a gentle touch..

Comforted the young one with soothing words..

O young one, what bothers you,

Ah how nice these pictures are..

Painted with your strands, such nuance..

Indeed the Artist loves you much..

You bring out her lovely touch..

Oh I see, now I see..

Your own, you think these pictures are?

The colours, the strokes, the forms, the scenes..

Your own doing, you think they are?

Oh my boy, that's why you despair!

See it all, as what it really is..

For the truth is glorious indeed!

Brushes we are, it is wonderful..

The Artist paints her ideas through us..

All these pictures, that we paint..

It's her sweet will, her creative spark..

A kind hearted one, indeed she is..

She paints with us, even when we're used..

New and old, small and large..

All of us have our place, in her vast toolkit..

Now what's our part, my boy you ask?

Oh yes plenty, there is to do..

We are tools for her to express herself..

So let us make ourselves the best brushes we can be..

Knots in our strands, frayed ends..

These and more we need to mend..

Keep ourselves clear and open..

So we can paint all colours truly..

Oh my boy, it is such joy..

To be a brush that paints her will..

Enjoy the painting, enjoy the picture..

And never do you forget..

To the Artist we all belong, and indeed not to the picture..