It’s 2025
A new year,
New promises, new dreams.
But all I see is an empty canvas—
Not one brimming with potential,
But one haunted by shadows,
A faint echo of what it once was.

I long for the days
When the future felt vast and bright,
When my dreams danced like sparks in the dark,
And the stars were mine to paint.
Back then, the canvas whispered,
“Anything is possible.”

But now, the stars are distant,
Surrounded by the toll of their brilliance.
The cost of creation weighs heavy—
Brushes worn thin, colors faded,
And I wonder, is it worth it?

Still, I hold my breath,
Hoping to believe again.
I ache to feel that spark,
To trust that what I do matters.
To dream beyond the confines of what I am told
And step into a world of boundless skies.

I remember a time when I lived beyond the canvas.
When my hands held the power to create worlds—
Purple trees, cloud-birds soaring free,
Waves of color defying reason,
Each stroke a rebellion,
Each moment a masterpiece.

But now,
The rules have tightened around me,
Defining what I can and cannot paint.
Confining my imagination,
Strangling the voice within my brush.

Yet it’s 2025,
A new year,
And I dare to dream again.
This year, I will break the rules.
I will shatter the frame.
I will paint not just on the canvas
But beyond its edges,
Onto the walls, the sky, the stars.

This year, I will reclaim my brush,
Mixing colors no one has ever seen,
Creating worlds only I can imagine.
Because the canvas is not a limit;
It’s a beginning.

I am a painter,
And I am the creator of my story.
It’s 2025,
And the stars are waiting.