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The painter stood staring at her canvas Right infront of her All of the painting palettes she needed stood looking at her, But she couldn't paint Was it the inspiration that was missing I can't really tell
But there is a time when all stands still. The ticking tocking hands begin to freeze Her heart, steadily begins to beat Motion meets defeat, as her reasoning comfortably takes the back seat
This pen is a sword the paper it's victim though not through words do you find that its poison but rather through lines: bent and shaped as they are they capture your mind
This house is hollow, these trees are artificial, I can't feel their warmnth.
There I'll be Face to face with the Mona Lisa