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I know that you're an artist, |
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but you're the hardest one to deal with. |
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Everything that you conceal |
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is revealed on your canvas. |
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You find all of your ugly meanings |
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in all of the things I find beautiful. |
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Do you see the fall is coming? |
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Come, I'm falling into you. |
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You perceive all of these things |
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I'd never have known. |
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Love, will you turn off the lights? |
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we're already home. |
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You painted me in pastel, |
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colors that don't tell of any boldness. |
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That's the way you'd love to see me: |
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so delicate, so weak, so little purpose. |
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But your eyes are drawn of charcoal |
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they're black, they're so cold, they're so imperfect. |
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Because they see a sleeping world, |
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where waking isn't worth it. |
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You perceive all of these things |
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that I'd never have known. |
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Love, will you turn off the lights? |
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We're already home |