What is art, from the words I say,
to the things I paint...
What do my words mean, they flow and they haunt,
but do they tell the truth?
What is facade but a word said in a nicer way.
The truth spread thin.
What is real in you eyes, may not be in mine,
and lies are too easily said for me to believe you,
or your actions.
The paint from your brush tells a story,
of grief and deceit.
Paint me a life with no more pain,with no more lies...
Would you call that art, or the art of disguise?
If you where then an artist and you died,
would it be a beautiful death, or a sad reunion?
We may be all different colors, none the same,
but that never stops you from trying to look the same.
If I were to tell you to look closer, to look at their faces,
would you notice the mask they ware?
The tears have left scars on their wrists,
and words have left burns on their hearts.
Are the words we say just scrips to please the crowd?
I'm telling you now, make your own art,
one that's never been seen before...
Words can hurt...