Lonely Masterpiece

Painted this canvas,
with so many colors of you-
every place and every space,
you furnish and garnish;
on this little work of mine
 
 
Brushed each and every stroke,
with love and such tenderness,
with warmth and such affection
 
But now what does that matter?
 
 
When its muse leaves its reserve...
then such work
becomes no use
it becomes only trash
 
These  vibrant colors of yours,
hurts one's eyes to see
awfully colorful such thing can be
 
 
Blinding my sight as I sigh
weeping as if I might die,
regret its creation,
regret its nature
 
But what use does that serve?
 
 This acrylic paint,
can't be erased
can't be replaced  
 
permanent marks it has left
 
 
Made to be bashed,
made to be smashed
this tiny canvas,
 already tainted-
sits in a corner alone
 
Collecting only dust..
collecting only hate..
 
 
What a lonely masterpiece I've created