1 min 14.2K 1 min 14.2K

When you are painting your own verse

Do not hold the brush of others

It will hurt the image

The same colors will speak a strange language

The canvas will appear distant

All bits will tongue an alien speech

This is not me, the work will screech

From within the frame

I cannot emerge

Singing the other song

The hired piece suffers halts as it moves along

With all that is confirmed, known and done.

You may be a stream

Which falls not knowing who it will meet

Or a flower that hollers

Without a clue it will please whom

The dew drowns in the depth of the dust

Its certain death it can only trust.

Your place may be beneath others

Like a blade of forgotten grass

Still it is you, your text, your own words

You will dance in the absence of watching eyes

Experiences insignificant will shine in time

Your own expressions will come into light

The poem of life you write

With actions black and white

Is all that matters

In what your life offers.

Others might have their own ways to recover

Not in others looks you cower

They’re beyond right or wrong, nor with power

Path you ceaselessly pass

Stream within the two winsome banks

Your own flow you alone discover.

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