I keep pictures painted of love in my music box,
To play for you all and turn back the clocks.
I am an artist of abstract peculiarity,
Expressing my syllables with my heart- a rarity.

I am the artist who sings as the sun sets,
Painting strange car art from the light of a cigarette.
I have known a million faces, faced a million ages,
But every side of the box is still faceless.
As am I.
I write for fear I might never die...
A thousand words stringed to a phrase,
Written in this book and tucked away-
Inside the box under the back seat, along with all the spare parts-
My strange car art.

I've been counting down the days that I've been hiding from the rain.
5-4-3-2-1
It doesn't make any sense, so I write it all the same.
Painting every book in its place along the shelf,
Freezing memories in time- sealing each with good health.

I am the artist who has long been alone,
Wandering my mind until I find a home.
And I found a home. With my battered heart,
I find home in my strange car art.
And I know what's been eating at you,
You don't know why you love me but I am glad that you do.