In just three short lines, the speaker takes a familiar idea, that suffering can be turned into art, and quietly twists it. The first line sounds almost comforting: every pain in life is art. But the next lines undercut that comfort. If pain is art, then the problem isn't the pain itself. It's the speaker, who has "the wrong brushes" or "a shaky hand."
What the speaker seems to feel is a mix of hope and self-blame. They want their hurt to mean something, to become beautiful or at least expressive, but they can't manage it. Instead of blaming the world, they blame their own tools and skill. The last line, pushed far to the right, even looks unsteady on the page, as if the hand is trembling.
The mood is soft, tired, and a little sad. There's a gentle self-deprecating humor in it, but underneath is the sense of someone struggling to put their pain into any shape at all.