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Forgotten Portrait (An Ib fansong) - text

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I’ve been here before, but never with company
there’s beauty in the madness of someone else’s longing
to be seen, to not slip through the cracks,
to fall into the black and be alone forever
known by nobody
I had a dark dream and awoke to turn to tell it to a ghost
I put all my ghosts into my words, and then erase them ‘till their smoke
floats across my page, falls into my paints,
and lines my pockets of my coat
to haunt my lonely days.
and maybe we’ll both die, maybe I will die for you,
a little stranger in her Sunday best, but what else could I do?
to be anything but lonely’s worth a shot at being only
a forgotten portrait hung inside a gallery to view.

Rooms built of emotion, as awkward as a sonnet writ of stone
or even the comfort of someone like me who stumbles on their own
lack of common sense, a backwards, wrong-end mess dressed in shabby clothes, and who but you would be impressed?
What maniacal artist, cursed the canvas, dipped his brush in fate
and painted my face beside thinking I could guide you?
Obligation thoroughly dictates I stay sane in the face of rage
And so for your sake I’ll be brave, thank god you saved me.
and maybe there’s an exit, and it’s light is up ahead,
and maybe art for art’s sake only isn’t all that bad.
to be anything but useless, if there’s just a chance I’ll choose it
even if it means, consequentially, I’m doomed a muse instead
Or confined as a forgotten portrait hanging in your head.

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