I am a painter,
A creator of pieces
The world has not seen before—
Pieces filled with color and meaning.
But I was often lost,
And gifted with no vision.
The paint on my brush started to dry
As I try to breathe my artwork into life.
Maybe being a painter
Was not my calling,
And my hands were not meant
To paint at all.
A new morning came,
And I saw you painting in my seat.
It was only then that I realized how different
Your world is from mine,
As I saw you paint my canvas with words
Instead of lines.
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