A poet is one who is able to look at the world in an artistic point of view then put their perspective into a series of word pictures. Their word pictures are not put in museums but in thick volumes that become worn down over the years. No matter how many times these pictures paint themselves for a reader; they become new to him each and every time. Sometimes the image is bleak and dreary; other times it is bright and vibrant. Nevertheless, poetry is the canvas on which the poet paints his soul. My canvas is one painted with muted tones, endless skies, and trivial tragedy. My canvas is one that has been torn and taped again. My canvas existed even before I discovered it – dust covered in the attic of my mind.