I can describe only so much, what hid under my artwork
What thoughts and drawings lay over my heart
I can never truly aspire to inspire with my life's work that far from finished
Who knew of my doodles, unfinished or halved.
The sky fell and icicles plunged through my soul,
The heat of their sharp truth stabbed me everything I must know
You can't be alone and expect things to happen
And if nobodies watching, then how will they know when?
Around a corner kicking me is the person I was
But now my art has a reason, a why, a because.
And if I falter and no longer make sense,
Then I'll keep on imagining of the because, the why and the reason
And my art will continue to be wrong and still be pleasing
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