I am an angled paint brush,  with densely packed bristles. Lost on a blank canvas, looking through my fluffy edges where to start. Where to start, I have no clue. There are no guidelines of graphite for me to fill. And certainly no hand for my back to fall into. So instead I hold myself up, making predictions of what you might like to see. But my assumptions of acrylic can turn to ruins, which will ruin my shot at being a showpiece. But I can’t read your mind, so how am I supposed to ace your rubric? When all you did was leave me— with a blank canvas and a palette of colors with infinite combinations.