A life soaked in colors

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Dreams of painting life with a thousand colors
Crashed to the ground like a bird with burned wings
While looking at my images I brushed with true colors
Seems funny, and unworthy for others.

Art of this world is what I have forgotten to learn
To make portraits in a single-minded mould
Where a palette comprises seldom choices
And colors are often mixed with tears.

Now my hands are tired to brush the dusk of my life
My bright-colored portrait seems red, and smells blood
As a painter at heart, all I know is to paint
And the only color which left to paint is my blood.

Perfect Poet Award Week 53


Thank you so much for this lovely diamond. I really appreciate the work that you guys do, and gladly accept the award. (Anthony)


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