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.