the brush i use…

the brush i use, it always paints the foreground;
the background’s for the brush i never use

my chosen colors: all that are around me
except the ones i never seem to choose

my father was a variegated painter
his paintings turned my world upon its spleen

but then he stopped, instead, to be a writer
and doused his paintings, all, with kerosene

i suffer from a type of mental seizure
i know that where it leads, i should not go

but everything, and no one, seems to notice
how good it is to never
break my flow

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