Sometimes paint brushes feel like
They belong in my hand,
Paint ready to be laid
A story ready to be lain
Strewn across canvas
Air
Skin
The night sky that shine down on me
And the world that continues around me
A me conflicted between this world and a world that doesn't exist
And so my mind supplies
And it sees the paint on bristles
Holding words that'll echo a world that cannot exist outside my mind.