My back, it is heavy
And my thoughts are troubled and stark
Yet I find solace in the stroke of the brush
I am a painter. And these are my works
The brush moves back and forth
Leaving beauty in it's wake
A springboard of colors, I hold in my hand
They urge for a canvas, and my hand as a vessel
They find their way there.
I can create something you have never seen
I can change what you already know
I can move your very soul
I am a painter. And these are my works.
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