False Alarm

The paintbrush speaks- I hear it speak
in the corner near the door-
It stands among the paints and pencils
and canvas on the floor.

It cries to me when I'm alone-
when no one else can hear-
"You must paint a masterpiece!"
It echoes in my ear.

I shut it out- ignore its plea
And go on with my work.
But then the brush speaks louder! louder!
Makes demands! It goes berserk!

Until everything I do or say-
My sleeping nights and during day-
Is the obsession that will not cease-
I must paint a masterpiece!

So, to please the voice-I pick up the brush
and select a canvas of white-
Prepare it with care and set it firmly
Near the window's natural light.

I dip into a mound of paint-
Anxious to create the dream I seek.
Suddenly the brush is silent.
It is dead.
It does not speak.