I think I paint because of fear of the abstract.
I think I have fear, and there it is,
Blossoming in my behaivor.
Like a flower peddle swayed by the wind,
I begin my life when many will end.
To fear the fear I have,
But I always love the loved ones.
I love being sad.
These grooves and epiphanies really steal my heart.
I reckon the presence,
But I fear the presents waiting for me.
A chip off the old block, I judge things by their cover.
"These apples always tase sour in summer,
But never in winter."
The splinter didn't bleed.
The thick prick picked it's pick and it picked me.
Yet, throughout all the glorious showers,
And all the spring flings,
This conceptual depression has always fooled me.
So I wait for patience,
And pretend my plants grow in shadows of Saturn,
Because this kind of matter,
Is what I think I know.
So I pick a flower,
She called it a dandelion.
I said, "Weeds are of this Earth; so, they are flowers!"
And she smiled.
And we began to cry.
There's no better way to understand it.
There's no better way to show,
Light shine brighter when your heart is filled with snow,
because in Winter we are warmth,
In Summer we dry,
In grace of the walls that protect us at night,
And prepare for lives to come...
In the eye of Horus,
Between the festivals and flowers,
A silver lining leads us to the power.
The power of mind.
The power of pigments
The power of lights that reflect our existence are alive,
And thus are we.
Holy moments lasting for infinity.
Moments made of you,
If there is anything I want you to see...
If there is anything you should gain from this...
There is a point to our existence,
Deep within the grain and grit.
Deep within the buckets of waste.
Deep witihin all of this hate,
Is a place of concern.
If we could just tap into ourselves,
We would know...
What we are concerned about.