paintings
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The painter stood staring at her canvas
Right infront of her
All of the painting palettes she needed stood looking at her, But she couldn't paint
Was it the inspiration that was missing
I can't really tell
But there is a time when all stands still.
The ticking tocking hands begin to freeze
Her heart, steadily begins to beat
Motion meets defeat, as her reasoning comfortably takes the back seat
This pen is a sword
the paper it's victim
though not through words
do you find that its poison
but rather through lines:
bent and shaped as they are
they capture your mind
