The Artist

MY SOUL IS PAINTED IN BLACK AND WHITE THERE ARE NO GREYS THROUGHOUT THIS CONSTANT FIGHT PENS AND PAPER; PAINTS AND CANVAS REMIAN BLANK UNTIL THE ART OUR MINDS DO HAND US RED TURNS TO PASSION, LETTERS TO WORDS GREEN BECOMES ENVY WITH ADJECTIVES AND VERBS IT'S NOT ALL MAGIC REASON OR RHYME SOMETIME IT COMES DOWN TO JUST THE RIGHT TIME BEATEN, BATTERED, TOURTURED, AND SCARED ONLY THE ART MATTERS WITH OUR HEARTS MARRD DREAMING THE DREAMS THAT NO ONE CAN SEE CREATING THE THINGS THAT NEVER CAN BE WE USE WHAT WE CAN GET BODY WOOD OR STONE AND IF IT CAME DOWN TO IT WE'D EVEN USE THE BONE FROM ONE MIND TO THE NEXT WE ALL ARE IN TUNE SLOWLY BECOMING EXTINCT WE ALL SENSE OUR DOOM FINDING INSPERATION IN THE DARKEST OF PLACES USING EVEN MOST OF DEFORMED OF FACES IN FRAGILE MINDS CHAOS AND ORDER WE SEE THE SKIES WITHOUT A BORDER WITHOUT THE EARS NO ONE WOULD BE HEARD AND WITHOUT THE ARTIST TOUCH LIFE BECOMES ABSURD