I want to paint

a ripe, juicy apple waiting to be picked off the green bush,

a lonely lost leaf trying to find its family,

Miss Jones’ hand trying to mark all the perfect work.

I want to paint

a mysterious eye staring at you when you sleep waiting for you to wake up,

a shiny football flying through the air as it explodes into tiny, rubbery pieces,

a glorious, tasty ice-cream melting in the scorching sun.

I want to paint

a fluffy cloud floating in the cool breeze,

a yummy, bright yellow banana getting peeled by Chloe’s hand,

a really tall pencil writing all over the blank paper.

I want to paint the end of this poem.