A sorrowful painter never shows their work, wrapped in memories, connecting words unspoken.// Aching with attention, craving another stroke of the brush, gently gliding over rough canvases.// Leaking misery the paint drips, along with your tears, and you realize the painter is you, and the paint is your blood.// You cover the painting and store it behind the shelves in your tired mind, and stop painting portraits of the sad girl.// How could you sell the art that is reality, when all they want to buy is dusty lies.