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As ink ridden eyes Gaze into white skies The world, a canvas The painter, relentless  The brush he holds A stroke of gold
A painter knows it's love When they see the art in everything you do. When they know you're a masterpiece And they want to study every inch of you. When they want to feel your every edge
       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
  I measure every Canvas -with introspected eyes- I wonder if it will fit- my beautiful Disguise.   I wonder if Some see the beauty-or just what it’s worth-
I write because I fight with words. I write because when I write I can be heard when there's no one else to listen and nothing else to do, not a verb else. When I write my sentences are fragmented but my thoughts are complete. Through.
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