It's hard to talk to artists, see, They've never made much sense Their memories seem clouded But yet I found one on a bench. I didn't find the artist, no, I only found his work A broken, torn apart journal A tattered, beat up book. I opened to the first page And saw a true sight to behold Colors flew across the paper In reds and blues and golds. The pencils must have danced And the thoughts should have exploded But what I had there in my hands Was worth much more than noted. I held his imagination Every fiber of his thoughts Every piece of information That he ever had been taught. The lines and circles spoke Every word that he could not They all told him not too So he kept it under lock. But there those drawings held the key The secrets to his past His present, future, all his hopes 'I wonder if they'd ask.' He kept his secrets quiet All his goals and all his dreams I found his only outlet His saving grace, it seems. I looked through all the drawings Some teasing, jokes, and grades All expressed in colors His feelings to create. I never met this man that day I still don't know him now I wonder if he's happy Or does he revel in the clouds? See, artists are a piece of work They're masters of the trade Their specialty is feelings Like the ones put on a page.