Self portrait

You dipped your brush in your long-suffering tolerance
and painted my edges lacking.
Dripping brush deftly hovered over my heart
and perfectly painted it slacking.
From your colored palette you muddied your brush stroking
lazy, inept, uncaring.
Then noting its harshness, you delicately dabbed
soft hues to the clothes I'm wearing.
Surveying grim image with tight-lipped approval,
Your depiction for the world's view
A portrait of self-torture birthed by you alone
Speaks nothing of me, but of you.

Another takes up his brush. New portrait is born,
Now glowing, golden-edged painting,
Brilliant strokes of silver, kindly toned with love,
Tender tints of laughter reigning.
Discrepancy easy to resolve, timeless truth.
Personal palette was the start.
Chosen colors run deep in every painter's veins,
blot or buoy each creator's heart.
Their inward condition forms the outward picture
Painting that which they wish to see
Some comprehend, and godliness knows it is true,
Their masterpiece speaks nothing of me.