The Painting is a Mirror

Too much on the mind but not enough to say There's something magical about writing And coughing on the foam of a latte Too much to say but not enough to see Listening to the people singing To the beat of Bohemian Rhapsody And sitting at a lonely table Where at least the coffee ain't half bad Rejuvenated by the melodic voices Help me forget about being sad The music hums on, a realistic rumble And I write down my feelings Hoping the memory won't crumble. And around me sits these paintings They're plaster yet made of glass And I see my self inside them  And inside them time has passed. But how could it be, I say A painting helped me see clearer? The reality of the art in life Is that the painting is a mirror.