He's an artist, 

he paints a deceiving picture across a crumbling canvas. 

While most are fascinated by how easily his ideas splurge across the sheet

in vibrant colors, 

I'm indulged with the way his fingertips exert exhaustion. 

He's painted this picture many times before. 

Yet he still smiles and says "This one's for you." 

But in this painting I too begin to crumble and I realize that I feel abandoned.

And he's celebrating in his chosen colors, 

He's celebrating in the alluding deceit, 

He's celebrating in himself. 

He will never know how dull the colors really are, 

he'll never know that it's never blissful all the time, 

he'll never know what I wish he would've painted. 

But still I smile and take it, even though this picture's never been for me.