Lyrics in the painting

Ironic; the way you paint
Reminds me of a sound I once sung-
Which you condemned.

My lyrical integrity is fatuous-
Igniting only the weakest of flames.
Your colorless sketching is a journey
A ride I could never imagine.

And there you sit, stroking a vision picturesque
Your talent is superb, I commend you,
You can transform the most exquisite flower
Into a tasteless bud.
I’m not sure if it will ever blossom.

Abuse, is written in the eyes of my mirror
It stains between the lyrics I script
Who knew,
There was no ‘faith’ in ‘you’.

Take my hand, as we combined the talents
Which I possess, and you digest.
Women only love those artistic, don’t they?
And men must condemn those
Who want to be expressed
Through the same means.

(The truth resides in one lyrical word:
“me”).