The muse
I can notice a lot of things. You know it’s so easy. I can notice that person. Everyone can notice her. This one who is always by your side. At every moment. Every day. Every fucking second of this fucking time. I don’t want to wicked. Because I’m not bad. I’m not nasty. I’m just… nothing.
My mind is just corrupted. I know she’s special. Because you paint each of her body curves.. You draw every reflect of her skin. You sketch each of her hair. Your paint brushes caress each part of her shape.
She became your piece of art. You touched her body. You kiss her skin. With love. You brush her naked body with the silence of your heart.
I can notice everything. Every word that you tell. To her. I’m a witness of this artistic scene. I’m a spectator like everyone. Like each person who can see your painting. These paintings that you paint often. These one who let her special to your eyes. To everyone’s eyes. For my own eyes.
I’m wondering if art is love. Or if love is art. I mean if your paintings are the reflect of a true love. Or just the result of passion for art. She is like a light star. Shinning into the dark sky of the night. Into the darkness of my mind. Of my soul. Of my heart.
I never want to be like her. I don’t want to become a star. Your star. Your piece of art. I want to be a little star. A little star who brings darkness. Because darkness makes me special. Darkness makes my soul lost.
I can truly say that I never want wish all of these things. I have never wanted to be your muse.
Search from various English teachers...
Corrections · 4
1
Juste pour savoir, j'ai beaucoup changé l'ordre de certains phrases et j'ai ajouté quelque adjectifs. J'espère que ça va, le texte lit avec plus de la fluidité maintenant. Bon travail, c'ést pas facile décrire une poème dans une autre langue!
I can see a lot of things. It comes instinctively to me. I notice the person deep within for whom they really are. Everyone notices her. The person that is always by your side. All the time, every day. Each fucking second of our fucking lives. I don’t want to wicked nd jealous. Because I’m not a bad person. I’m not nasty. I’m just… human.
My mind is just corrupted. I know she’s special. Because you paint each of her body's curves in bold strokes. You shade in every inch of her skin. You sketch each one of her hairs in excruciating detail. Your paint brushes stroke every part of her shape onto the canvas.
She became your muse and masterpiece. You caressed her body. You kissed her skin with love. You brush her naked body with the silence of your heart. (?)
I notice everything. Every word that you utter to her. I’m a witness to your play. A spectator like everyone. Just like the crowd who look at your paintings. Those paintings that you paint so often. Of her who was supposed to be solely for your eyes. You exhibit her ofr the world to see. For everyone’s eyes. Even for mine.
I’m wonder to myself if art is love. Or if love is art. In essence I suppose that your paintings are the reflection of true love. They couldn't just be borne from your artistic passion, could they? She is like a bright star breathing her light into the dark sky of the night. Into every crevice of the darkness of my mind, my soul and my heart.
I would never want to be like her. I don’t want to become a star. Your star. Your piece of art. I want to be a little star. A little star who brings darkness. Because darkness makes me special. Darkness makes my soul lost and liberated.
I can truly say that I would never wish any of these things upon you. I have never wanted to be your muse.
I can see a lot of things. It comes instinctively to me. I notice the person deep within for whom they really are. Everyone notices her. The person that is always by your side. All the time, every day. Each fucking second of our fucking lives. I don’t want to wicked nd jealous. Because I’m not a bad person. I’m not nasty. I’m just… human.
My mind is just corrupted. I know she’s special. Because you paint each of her body's curves in bold strokes. You shade in every inch of her skin. You sketch each one of her hairs in excruciating detail. Your paint brushes stroke every part of her shape onto the canvas.
She became your muse and masterpiece. You caressed her body. You kissed her skin with love. You brush her naked body with the silence of your heart. (?)
I notice everything. Every word that you utter to her. I’m a witness to your play. A spectator like everyone. Just like the crowd who look at your paintings. Those paintings that you paint so often. Of her who was supposed to be solely for your eyes. You exhibit her ofr the world to see. For everyone’s eyes. Even for mine.
I’m wonder to myself if art is love. Or if love is art. In essence I suppose that your paintings are the reflection of true love. They couldn't just be borne from your artistic passion, could they? She is like a bright star breathing her light into the dark sky of the night. Into every crevice of the darkness of my mind, my soul and my heart.
I would never want to be like her. I don’t want to become a star. Your star. Your piece of art. I want to be a little star. A little star who brings darkness. Because darkness makes me special. Darkness makes my soul lost and liberated.
I can truly say that I would never wish any of these things upon you. I have never wanted to be your muse.
0
This is the voice version. How is my accent ?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wVz3eKaqKUQ&feature=youtu.be
0
I do believe that correcting literature writing is like putting oneself above the corrected but instead only remarks can be made , I only find the meaning of stars bring darkness can be expressed better by something logically or imaginably obscure light !!!!, other than that I think it is quite good piece !!
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