♫ The words we feel inside, but have never had the opportunity to say ♥

I Paint Tragedies, Not Fulfillments

Creating a masterpiece is hard to do,
Maybe dopamine painting will see you through.
Leaving life's colors behind until addiction is done,
Each stroke takes time, the tragedy begun.

Time is signed, lies mark the mind with each line,
People think it saves the one-sided image fine.
But what of your mind, soaked in bloody red,
From your partner's victims, left you for lonely dead?

Punches sit deep, discord grows,
Curator gets blinded, don't see what the painting shows.
Your mind sinks deep, thoughts won't stir,
Simple folks miss the desolate blur.

You lose yourself, heart and soul,
Curator takes control, plays a fake role.
Colors fade, split in two,
No longer life's work, happiness askew.

The artist thinks he must save the day,
But the curator sells your colors away.
To create love's unique masterpiece,
But the drug fades, and pain won't cease.

Hurtful words, breakdowns unclear,
Knock you down, feed the fear.
On your shoulders, futures lie,
Loving lives, but slowly you wonder why.

Each wrong stroke drives you mad,
Till the palette's washed and dependence is had.
Dependent on warmth and passion's flame,
But nothing catches, no one to name.

Partner's past comes back to haunt,
Shows she's not ready, dreams that taunt.
Bloody touches on your soul,
Break your life, exact their toll.

Lost in words, false and bright,
But don't give up, you're the artist right.
Passion strong, sold and used,
Work and soul, not appreciated, bruised.

You'll always wonder what it gave,
Curators need the artist brave.
Artist feels with honest heart,
For love's masterpiece, torn apart.

It feels like your life is a mess,
All the paintings used and pressed.
But you always drew with loving care,
Maybe tragedy finds fulfillment there.