I know nothing about love, except what I
feel
I know nothing about people, except what I
see
I know nothing about love, except that it
heals
I know nothing about people, except that
they can be both loving and mean.
I painted a picture of all the ways I love
Watered the paintbrush in my tears, this
way I bore my soul
Dipped the brush in colours of my
vulnerability and capabilities equally
Transformed my energy into the frame I
would keep this picture in
Then I called the piece; my heart
I think nothing of my mind, it tends to
stray
I think nothing of what I see, half the
time it’s all an illusion
I think nothing of the mind, so I feed it,
that it may not decay
I think nothing of reality as long as it
does not cloud my vision
This painting I created is dear and
treasured
It is compelling; aided by sleepless nights
and daydreams
I am paranoid about this painting,
especially about who touches and sees it
Within it, is engraved a key, a key that
tames ogres and strengthens idiots
To protect it and those around me, I keep
it safely locked away
Locked in a place that has been a mystery
as long as time has existed; the mind.
WOW I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO SAY BUT YOU GOT WHAT IT TAKES TO BE AUTHOR
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