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Narrow hallways in morning Where the sun wont come through I laid cramped on the floor through the night, painted blue Early sky with no warmth Like a push, but not forth Dragged behind my shortcomings
Well a lifetime slipped right on by Underneath my wing In the space between youth and it's timeless lies A lifetime found its way ahead of me One more time I thought i'd outrun it
I would have happily stayed theresleeping in my airless candreaming in the silent darknesswith not a concern in the world
When I see the color Swirl onto the white canvas My walls crumble before me My world grows bigger The wild prairies of Kansas  Sleep under the night sea That which held countless stars that hover
My canvas is stained with memories  Ink seeping from its white sheets like blood Pooling into puddles of thoughts, feelings, expressions The red rage that builds up inside me
Be gentle with my heart, Love, It’s a fragile little thing. 
You are not the painter but the canvas As a favorite author has said Painted by other individuals Colors are chosen by emotions Hurt makes the blues
You were perfect...too perfect, Your warm smile sheltered your bitter words Those deep blue eyes focused far beyond me You only confirmed my greatest fear:
She painted her face the way she painted her body, To cover the pain and tears he left behind.   ~awatr
To the Artist Who Painted the Portrait of a Heavy Heart,   Your frayed brushes with shattered, splintered handles devoid of paint
Daggers of sound Stab the night Like lovers found Cheating. But tonight we live For it. Live like living will Fix the problems, Even tho it won't. We dance with the strobes
Join and fight, join to die. Join to paint, a blood-red sky. The artists are the infantry, The archers black a sky to see, The flames, the art, Troy to dust While Hektors sword gives way to lust,
As I sit, soaked in paint dripping on the office chairs I think about how I got here If it hadn’t been for that math problem  
As ink ridden eyes Gaze into white skies The world, a canvas The painter, relentless  The brush he holds A stroke of gold
If I could paint a picture of you  I would need a large canvas.  One that could actually hold my vision of you.   
I am the illustrator The masterpiece creator The doodler Subjective art form translator   Visionary artist
I get out of bed every morning  because if I were to lie still then who would there be to paint all the colors I see in my dreams? If I were to lie still then my world would never be any brighter 
Lost in the land of backpacks, bullying, and excuses I just can't take it any more, I'm a complex thinker in a simple, close-minded land The bland robots walk around with the same daily routine
When the brushhairs touch the smooth canvas My abstract thoughts and feelings are no longer outlandish My cheeks lift up pulled by beautiful happiness As ideas come forth unridiculed by their possible wackiness
I don’t want to write about you anymore I don’t want you to think that you are as essential to me as periods and lowercase letters or that the structure of my life will break down and decompose and
Painted Upon a Page my unspoken words sit. Sour and horrid are their meanings... deeper than I would like to admit.
I was always an artist first but words were just a new kind of paint   Not so much a visual medium  and not so much music but something in between   With words dripping out of my fingers
Art;     the (blood rushing through my veins, painting me with color in this gray, flavorless world)  ability to take your brok-            en, s e n s e l e s s, s   c     a
A little dot here A splash of color there Just add a little bit of "omph" everywhere.   My soul has been unleashed My attention must not cease I want to forget; that is my silent prayer.  
Sleep controls our minds, it wraps itself around our though process until it seeps into our neurons by the power of suggestion
I am slowly changing like a painting manipulated and altered by multiple artists. The artists and I grow old together. My tattered corners must add some character to me, right?
girl in the bathroom paints on her facecovering the spots on her skin hoping to be like the otherscover it for the mornings but reminded by the night timeknowingly she changes her looks
When the song plays I see my treasure, the person who I care about. A bitter sweet song that gives me a sign that you are still waiting for me.
Paint a picture for me
Everything is Awesome! Jordan Bryant
Crayola, crayon, color. It’s nice, pretty, and one of its own nothing will be like it.
It starts in 1999, when at five years old, still chubby-cheeked and new, I learned that make-up was for girls as night over night I watched my mother paint 
Bleeding because it paints the pictures so heavily spilled in my mind. And seeing the crimson upon my skin Gives me pain that makes me real.   Crying because It makes me view
My face is not my canvas I can contour I can paint I can outline I can manipulate I Cannot tell a story I Cannot move others emotionally I Cannot be studied   My real canvas
Sometimes I care so much it hurts So I hide behind indifference for anesthesia I'm running from my inner demons It’s easier to use my sins as temporary amnesia   I wear my Scarlett letter like a mask
With my pencil full of lead,sharp at its head. The line I draw that's a bore,but soon it'll be something more.
Drip in and out of reality,
Seeing a painting That most people think has no meaning I see something else In the jumble of stuff Not just splatters of paint But pictures in unlikely places Maybe a lady on a swing
I met a girl once twice many times.   Sitting, she swung on a swing And smiled at the clouds  she sang a song, the chorus once  twice  many times
Drag an eraser through your tears until the wet trails have all but disappeared A wooden pencil shall draw your lips up into a smile And paints may drop all sorts of bright colors of all shades and tints But not even a million Could blot out the
  Imagine a world with no color How dull our lives will be Every moment the sky gray That’s not the way Our dreams won’t be dreams We will wake up with screams Because a world with no color
There I'll be Face to face with the Mona Lisa 
My dear, My friend, My confidante, you are drowning in suicidal greyscale. The world, so vibrant, paints our lives with emotional colors- our thoughts, feelings, actions-
I wrote this for the purpose of an inspirational video.The impact of the piece isn't as great unless you SEE it. Please check it out as you listen and read along. Copy this link into your browser,
I like to let my imagination run wilder with every darker shade of the night sky, as the sunset melts away onto the other side of the world, like sherbet ice-cream left on the counter for too long.
The wrinkles under his eyes spell experience and trust as his overworked lips form the words let yourself be raw but even then i paint.  I paint over the bruise on my cheek
Sketching the world in a little black notebook; preferably the kind that highlights the light. Walk by and find that your figure has danced on my paper. I fail to see the reflecting light subside.
My canvas needs paint My prison needs bars The light sheds through the darkness The darkness that has kept me in the shadows for 9 withering months Paint the colors of the rainbow on her canvas
Every morning she paints on her face. She removes the bags from under her eyes, and hides the ones lying inside. She tries her best to cover the stains, tries her best with the ones in her brain.
A brush of color through silvered night air, Paints a dragon’s false shape, starlit shining Majesty with which no one can compare. Aurous beast, streak through the wind like lightning
Color me anything Anything at all A vibrant gold wave Or a tinselly silver Christmas red and green Or daffodil yellow It doesn’t matter what As long as you can see it
Back and forth, back and forth, runnin down the court Can't imagine anything. Nothing stronger, im the king of this court, come at me brother.
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