I wish I could create what I feel.
I wish I could paint the stars that dance in your eyes.
I wish I could sketch what your laugh sounds like.
But how can I create when everything is pressed through a form until your wrinkles are made smooth and your eyes return to blue.
I don't understand why you can't colour until you use the same standardized, "customized" palette as everybody else.
Or how you can't write what you feel, until you have a spaced, rhyming letter.
They tell you to be your own perfect, unique, only you.
But everybody shares, copies and borrows the same words, same clothes.
No matter how hard I try, I can't fit into the footsteps of their mind and mold.
I write my words from spilled ink and bitter dreams.
They tell me my words must be printed in a line and that my dreams must be more divine
But, we know better don't we?
We cannot be a rainbow when we are the raincloud.
We are the outcasts that paint with black when the world insists on yellow
We hide away when the world would have us be open like the sea.
We are the red umbrella in rain.
We are the Artists.
