Form

I just want to be a painting.
And I’ll have eyes of a painter falling in love with me, shaping my self from nothingness, worshipping me, dwelling into me.
I just want to be a painting,
Like a paper violated by paint, feeling euphoria of having a company, unable to whisper of its grateful feeling.
Like a brush meeting water, feeling coldness into the pores, warmed and stares of amazement, dim light, a contrast clean white wall, moving nothing, as kind-hearted being, and I’ll always be amazing, I just want to be a painting.

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3 thoughts on “Form

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