I am but a painted being,


Are my feelings.


On this canvas I’m living.

No one knows what I’m truly seeing.

On the walls I’ll be hanging,

I blend in well with your surrounding.

I am but just a painting,

I can’t be with you where you’re going.


Small portrait it is,

Takes me a week.

It pains my wrist,

To finish a tweak.

She kept my brushes,

Obsessed with organisation.

Armed with kindness,

And the best intentions.

But artists hate it,

When their tools are kept,

It is symbolic,

Their inspiration trapped in a shed.

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