Ode to the artist,
Who wears her heart on her sleeve,
Who never leaves her house without a paintbrush,
Who'd rather go on a date to a gallery,
Instead of a coffee shop,
Who's got more paint on their clothes,
Then in their art boxes,

Ode to the muse,
Who're aching soft hands are caught in her dark, messy hair,
Leather jackets, skinny jeans and cat-eye eyeliner,
Electric eyes,
She's a devil on fire,
She's got your name written on a cigarette,
So with every drag,
It burns a little more and hurts a little less,

Ode to the poet,
Who sits on her window ledge,
Watching the city lights,
With her head in the clouds,
At 4 am,
Tired, stargazey eyes,
That sparkle in the sunlight,
She observes from afar,
Watching cautiously from the dark,

Ode to the bookworm,
The wild child,
With a taste for adventure,
The braveheart,
Who spends more time in fictional worlds,
Then in the one that's real,
There's a certain fire in her eyes,
And it's starting to spread.