My stokes can be sharp or dull, they can run down the canvas or they and stay firmly in place. My paint is the color in which I yearn to see. My brush is envious of the sword of a soldier. While the frame of colorful lies stands tall, the paint behind it all is that one masterpiece I can call my own. It is here where I show who I am with this brush of mine. And with this brush I shall paint until my canvas can take no more, until the paint in which I use runs dry from all the uses to repaint this endless photo. This is my painting, my masterpiece, my lifeline and it is who I am. The only indication I am alive is the pain I feel.
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Random Stories
RandomOk, so these are some little stories I'm writing that are beginnings of could be future stories. If you like one and want it to become a bigger story, please comment on that story.
