Too much on the mind but not enough to say
There's something magical about writing
And coughing on the foam of a latte
Too much to say but not enough to see
Listening to the people singing
To the beat of Bohemian Rhapsody
And sitting at a lonely table
Where at least the coffee ain't half bad
Rejuvenated by the melodic voices
Help me forget about being sad
The music hums on, a realistic rumble
And I write down my feelings
Hoping the memory won't crumble.
And around me sits these paintings
They're plaster yet made of glass
And I see my self inside them 
And inside them time has passed.
But how could it be, I say
A painting helped me see clearer?
The reality of the art in life
Is that the painting is a mirror.