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The Atrist's Torment
The creative mind of the artist, absorbing colours, emotions and pain
His trembling hand creates a masterpiece, perfection he will never attain
With the crimson from his bleeding veins, the ebony of soulless skies
He mixes with such insanity, a pallet of tears for the dryest eyes
Feel the loneliness within his shades of blue, violent crimson strokes so bold
The piercing light of an ice cold white, the hues of summer sun so gold
With eyes that see darkness, deep within the very soul of man
He suffers on the edge of insanity, creating works few will ever understand
It's plain all efforts of his artistry, were wasted within arts suffering and pain
He never caught the beauty of neon streets, nor the spectrums in diamante rain
There is a pleasure within all poetic pains, which only the artist and poet knows
The imagery used to paint a thousand words , was left to the beeding thorn of rose
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