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Splatter paint

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I've seen great authors
Spread words with a brush,
They smear them across
A canvas, and thus,
A beautiful story
In vivid details,
Of swords that have crossed,
Of ships that have sailed,
Of heroes and underdogs
Who have prevailed,
Of Vilnius fiends,
In the end unveiled.

Yet some paint not with ink,
But in blood.
Their hatred's a sea,
My mind it does flood!
I'm drowning! HELP!
But then they shriek
"We're dying of dehydration,
Don't speak!
We have it worse!
Our torture lives!"
And long after
Our poor world gives
Out, they'll never blame
Themselves.
Excuses they have
Lined on shelves.

No, not shelves,
But our tombstones,
Life wasn't worth living
As their hateful drones.
And all the paintings,
So long forgotten.
In the end were our hopes
Doomed to be rotten?

NO, says I,
Pick up you pen!
In this battle of emotion
We can't let them win.
Their hatred's disease
But our hope's the cure,
So I'm begging you please
Hope a little more.