Brush strokes filled the page.
His hands shook as he skimmed the brush against the canvas.
No expression.
No image.
He aimlessly mixed colors together;
he threw the palette to the floor.
The color wasn’t perfect.
Could this be art? It looked like a child drew it.
But no one would ever know or appreciate
the sweat and tears he put into those brush strokes.
He called it his masterpiece.
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