They take such work
So many people
So little time
I wanted my dream
So badly I ached
So much to learn
Freedom, it burns

I wanted badly
But not enough to work
Always a reason
Always a lie
I hate myself

Get it myself
Get busy, forlorn days
Once, to be an artist
Talents thought lost
Hands don't walk
My mind doesn't see
No imagination to find

Now, it's been so long
Gave me paper, beautiful pad
Pencils, erasers, everything
I looked at him in distain
Mock my private, lost dreams

It's over, done gone.
My chances past
My future is not mine
He shook, he lied
Not over, just postponed
The future is yours

Not for pencil
But now for ink
I write, paint with words
Work, rubbing fingers to bone
Flipping papers, cuts and tone
Ink, so black, perfect paper, words
First one then two, then three more

Slow at first, no money to burn
I sold just one, then two, then three more
He paused, looks so proud
I crushed his soul, but he found my book
Didn't notice I saw

He shed a tear, one I could never make
He had said I could, but his words meant nothing
Nothing he said, I ignored it all
Wouldn't be learned
It took such work; pitiless toil
I hate him so
For believing

For me