But the artist is now rich It only took him an hour To build a house with no foundation only a week to sell the deception
Wait, where is his skin, did he not shed the white? It lounges in the shade under a redwood tree
But what does it do, it cannot just sit all the day It does far more than just become part of a portrait scene
But no one sees him, after all he is just a hollow skin Struggling to pick the right word, or phrase that completes his fragment Why does it take him months to complete, why does he not sell for profit? How do you sell an apology? Can our souls be bought now at market?
He takes long Because he cares
Its been annoying me recently, how many poems I've read that seem they've been spit out in seconds, with no rules or designs to make them interesting. I don't know. Some people probably feel the same way about some of my poems too.