I read recently that one should write at least one sonnet in their lifetime; so not knowing what will happen next I gave it a shot

I haven’t drawn in a very long time;
let alone picked up that leaden paintbrush
my last model murdered my lovers touch.
Once lively colors pummeled, beaten by
shadows cast, the wake of dependence. Blind,
the artists will and eye gouged from my lush
craft. Scrape the palette, dead encrusted hues.
Haven’t picked up myself in quite some time.
I wish I could paint the portrait of my
last devotion with this mess of a heart
already jarred loose, no chance for reprise.
I’d grin as I fell, though weeping in part;
I’ve broken my block by ending my time,
bled out your true colors, my masterpiece.