Paint Brush

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
I am not your paint brush, sir...

Submitted: June 05, 2008

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Submitted: June 05, 2008

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Paint

The tears streaming down my faces are hues of red and gold

Because I will never be, what you are trying to mould

The canvas is rain streaked, the water colors smell of wet

And as I flick the paint flecked paint brush, my mind is set

-------- (the poem isn't breaking for some reason :()

I am not your paint set, used and left alone

I am a person, a human being with soul

I am not your paint brush, waiting obediently for you

For I shall contain my virtue

----------

The paint brush is caked with drying paint

On the canvas, a face of a dying saint

I longe to be free of the manacles around my wrists

But yet, you continue to persist

-----------

I will not let you haunt me, day and night

I will not let every shadow give me a fright

I will not be your puppet, slave or toy

And my pain will no longer give you joy

------------

I am not your paint brush, sir, I am not

And the last you will hear of me, shall be a gunshot


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