Portrait

I'm led to paint a picture
it's one that I don't feel.
Its colors must be vibrant
a portrait that's not real.

The image that is forming
is bound by such detail,
such precision and perfection;
I'm not allowed to fail.

The world around me watches
knowing what it wants to see.
With its whispered expectations
it moves my brush for me.

Every stroke I make, commissioned,
every color far from faint,
each directive most imposing
as the canvas wears the paint.

While the outcome seems amazing,
a truth it cannot tell;
for the heart within the portrait
in another place does dwell.