Les ArtisteLes ArtisteLes Artiste
He sits in his little room. His paint as the ensemble And canvas as a stage.
The symphony plays, Robust and rich. His hand , the maestro ,
Twirls rhythmically.
He pours forth His soul,
To the image in mind. Not sure what he sees, Haphazardly peering into a masterpiece.
The canvas will speak eventually, He sighs. Shaking his head , whispering, "Labeur constant pour l'artiste"
Odd...
Content
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My gallery: [link]
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Send this to 8 people who you think are beautiful.... If you get this more than once you know that you are looking fine.... If you break the chain you will be cursed with ugliness forever.
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~It's amazing how everytime you open your mouth, you prove that you're an idiot
~One by one, the sock bunnies are slowly eating my socks...
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"the voice of reason"
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"the voice of reason"
thankyou mois much for the compliment i'm so flattered i fell off my chair
i'll read your poetry pretty soon so wait for my comments
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deviant: procrastinator
photographer and writer, amongst other things
i gave up long ago. painted love with crimson flow. ran out of blood and hope. so i paint you no more
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If you have to think about whether you love someone or not, then the answer is no.
When you love someone... you just know.
My Clubs
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