the empty canvace

thoughout "great" literature the empty canvace is viewed as a place of infinite possibilyities.
right now, my life is an empyt canvace, with out possiblilities. i had a beautiful paining, perfect down to the last detail, each brush stroke let behind by some one who cared.
some one who as of now, will now pain any more stokes on my canvace of life. every one i knew is gone, for i am lost to them.
my painting is gone and im left with blank emptyness, unable to make any thing out of it but the lone firhgtinging words"verdrug oh." for verdugo, as more resecting people might call the school, is where i have ended up.
i've got to figure that some one up there hates me alot. i had a plan, right though the rest of my life, i'd to to texas a and m, live in a small town in oregon, and have two horses, wich i would hook up to a cart every sunday after noon and drive about the town.
i had the out line of a life, and all i had to do was live it out.
BUT who ever it was up ther who hates me took away my plan, my hopes and most likeyly my future. i lost a world that sould have been mine, doomed to the seedy underworld of run of the mill public education. some one please kill me.
i dont belong here.