Pianos from the blackness..
Brush the air with melody so abrasive yet placid..
Ink is my drug, the pain released from the words, are pictures for you..
Illustrations ride through my veins, pouring at a speed, sangre..
For white America, blood on my keys, yet that doesn't urge me to stop playing..
I pounce on the first chance to catch a cadence so tyrant..
So eager to show the world how beautiful his ugly is..
Forbidden thoughts might put him behind the devils door..
He calls it passion, you refer to it as insanity..
Maybe once in awhile he does too, but it makes him normal, it makes him get a feel for the less fortunate..
Sights on the green mountains, purple leaves dance above the blue fountains..