Perfect Imperfection

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Her mind is a mess of colors and shapes,

Twisting, twirling,

They morph together, they pull apart,

They stretch and they shrink.

 

Her hand moves almost without her consent,

She grips the paintbrush firm in her fingers,

And glides it gently over the paper,

 

The pure canvas is gone,

And replacing it are her thoughts,

Deep and brooding,

Light and cheery,

Contrasting against themselves,

 

The story words could never tell.

This poem is about: 
Me

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