I've been making art all night and day
Not being able to stop no matter the way
And I could go on from May to May
If I had enough lead and paint to throw away.
The brain of the artist has no set mind
And the hands of the artist are not in a bind.
When the semi-conscious artist strikes with the pen
Twisted words well-refined come out with a bang.
I don't write or create with any common goal
Sometimes its accidental when I make something whole.
I see in my dreams and when I close my eyes
Clearer than when I'm awake and confused by a guise.
I draw a semblance that bares no resemblance
To anything earth has brought forth.
And when you look confusedly at a first glance
You have to ask " what is it for?"
It doesn't mean anything, its just some aestheticism
I'm sorry-- i'll apologize-- for leading white light through a prism
And making it split with the force of a schism.
