Posted by: Devin | November 26, 2016

​My paint brushes are dry. 

Saddened, they cannot weep. 

“FILL US WITH PAINT! 

LET US MANIFEST YOUR DREAMS!”
“But all my dreams are of visits with musicians, 

and, as such, are not overly fantastical.”
They stare at me from behind artificially manufactured fringe. 

Never real horse hair. 

That’d just be disgusting. 
“While perhaps not of dragons, 

or monsters or lore, 

let your art be the journey 

you battle with brush.”
“This poem isn’t very good,”

I inform them. 

“Paintbrushes don’t talk, 

and you were supposed 

to say something about 

how art manifests dreams.”
“Don’t push it, sister,” 

Round Number 4 warns. 

“We like to make messes, 

but we can’t write for shit.”

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