every canvas I touch
before I knew better
I sold my art in a white tent
as my babies were carried away
I felt I had given someone permission to kidnap my children
This was nine years ago
and I still want them back
they were my paintings
mine, mine, mine, mine, mine
I now have sixteen hundred paintings
but none of them have ever been able to replace
the ones I lost
I wish I had never sold a one.
every painting has a story to tell
my story
every canvas I touch is full of a memory
no one else could ever give me
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