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A hand, wrinkled and scarred,

shaking as the cold wind blows,

a hole in my heart, I try to fill.

Using my blood, sweat and tears,

my ink upon canvas, of broken world in which we live.

A synthesis of broken heartbreak.

Echoing around the cold winter breeze.

Against the cold, dying light,

one fighting on and on against the cold barren streets,

fighting the march of ticking time,

fierce against the night sky,

peaceful in its sink to sleep.

The tears I shed, scars I bare, the broken bones,

dreams and hopes, shattered upon the floor.

My ink, my art, in passing the flight of time.

This is the artists pain, everyone’s,

but takes the artist, to make it mine,

to make it ours, to bare my scars to us all,

letting my tears shine. Ring out,

to touch hearts, as they have mine.

This is the artists’ job. And it is mine.


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