The Storyteller

My job’s to paint a picture,
But I do it with my mind.
Each thought is a brushstroke
On a canvas unconfined.

Sometimes I understand it,
But for the most part I do not.
I just keep on painting
‘Til I figure out the plot.

Characters are what come first,
Be they evil or good,
But as I paint they tend to change
More than I thought they would.

While characters are important,
They’re not the only thing,
For I must paint the backgrounds
For my picture to take wing.

Backgrounds are quite tricky
For they must be done just right:
Not too detailed, but still there,
To on the plot cast light.

Unlike other painters
I start my work in pieces.
As I paint, I discover connections
As my knowledge of the plot increases.

As my canvas is my mind,
And my thoughts the paint,
I can redo things easily,
And change things without restraint.

Once the picture is complete,
My job is still not done,
Because no-one’s seen the picture yet,
So my work’s just begun.

Because the picture’s in my mind,
I have to find a way
To show my work to others—
To put it on display.

Some like to use a keyboard,
Others use a pen,
But me, I like to use my tongue
To tell it again and again.

Though other artists’ works are grand,
My kind is unique,
For each picture is seen differently
By each who take a peek.

Painters paint with brushes,
And sculptors sculpt with clay,
But we storytellers use our soul
To tell our stories our way.