The world is a canvas, vast and wide,
Each stroke is a journey where truths collide.
Through moments fleeting, both dark and bright,
We shape the stars in our endless night.

Every choice, a color we weave,
Some we cherish, others we grieve.
What seems chaotic, broken, or torn,
Is a masterpiece waiting to be born.

Love and hate, not opposites they stay,
But hues of the same shadowed gray.
Hate is love in a fierce disguise,
A flame that burns beneath tender skies.
For if we feel, it means we care,
A bond unbroken, still lingering there.

In the silence of nights that scream,
Where darkness drowns the faintest dream,
The brush of pain moves firm, precise,
Adding depth to life’s fragile device.
Each tear, a shimmer, each scar, a line,
A testament to the design divine.

I, Pratham Garg, a painter too,
With trembling hands, paint skies anew.
Through joy, despair, and unspoken fears,
I trace the arcs of my passing years.
Each stroke a hope, each shade a song,
Each failure shaping where I belong.

Hope emerges, a radiant hue,
Blending shadows into skies of blue.
It whispers, “Rise, the storm will fade,
New colors bloom where pain once stayed.”
Through shattered moments, light still streams,
Turning despair into timeless dreams.

So paint your part, bold and true,
Every mark you leave is you.
The canvas grows with each embrace,
A work of art, a gift of grace.
Step back, Pratham, and see the whole,
The woven threads of a searching soul.

Your love, your loss, your strife, your flame,
Have etched your legacy, signed with your name.

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