My White Canvas

A touch of blood or a whiff of blue,
A drop of green to add to the hue.
The pride in violet or a little black
For all the darkness in my head, in the back.

The grey of the burnings,
Or the Orange is it, cry the flame within
Or should I stick to bliss
With the pink of the skin.

If with all these shades, is a canvas,
Keeping the painter arise
It Should be a window
Into a task yet to surprise.

But here I stand clueless (a complete blank)
The brush in one
And holding the palette in another,
My empty mind failing to slither.

What should be my first stroke?
Do I have no start?
Or have I exhausted my options?
Have I done nothing so far?

(But wait)
Is the canvas actually blank?
Seems like I've done this all before,
The white staring at me, is it emptiness
Or a reflection of all the shades from the base to the core.