• aesthete_03 102w

    my little paint brush is on a canvas
    red-yellow, appeares to be the new color of my fingers
    you have one pen and a million papers
    why do you have ink smeared all on your fingers

    your little black book is thicker than the old testament
    it's old and dusty, nothing close to vivid
    behind my canvas is an old fellow named sir Raymond
    he's old and rusty, a walking replica of timid

    your paper, my canvas
    your pen is my paint brush
    your words paint a thousand pictures
    but my picture is worth a thousand words

    You are a solitary writer, with a heart that is faint
    I am afraid, a perfect world for you I cannot paint
    but a fatal attraction is common
    and what we have in common is pain

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    Your paper, My canvas