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Envious of these words,
That dance with soft ease.
Their stubborness to live as they will,
Not to be pushed into what I might dream for them.
But they live their own lives,
Say their own things.
I struggle even to make them bend,
Bend them to say what I wish of them.
Resenting these words,
That slip with ease through my mind.
Longing for my fingers to do the same,
With brushstrokes over canvas.
Yet the strokes do not come,
Only a small handful of words.
And I cannot show what I can see.
I cannot show it in images,
Of glistening paint,
That makes a viewers eyes sing.
Instead I bow down to a few simple words,
That say they can do the task better.
And I still long for the brushstrokes to come.
But they never do.