The Paintbrush.
A paintbrush I hold, within my trembling hands,
though it doesn't look the same, not of ordinary stands.
Insanity your eyes are saying, with this skeptical play of speech,
but I tell you, it is capable, this I beseech.
I must admit it is a pen, but open your narrow mind,
and perhaps if you search, a tool of masterpiece you may find.
For I can't dip it into different shades and hues, but what I can do,
is paint a picture with words, if you will allow me to.
See, if I talk of a hill, I can sketch the luminous green,
the bright sun overhanging the subtle beauty; all this can be seen.
In your mind perhaps, but isn't this a greater treasure?
Nothing can limit you there, nothing whatsoever.
Masterpieces with this little pen of mine,
though it isn't pretty, better than a paintbrush in design.
To most I'm not an artist, and I won't say I'm great,
but isn't creating pictures the same definition to date?
It is my vice, my glory, my passion, my love,
nearer and dearer to me, though I can't contain it like a dove.
Some days I struggle and stare, the pen of mine quivering,
while the want of release within me is constantly pending.
And other days it comes with ease, flowing unrestrained,
letting me guide it here and there, creating the picture I've ordained.
Ultimately though, I am just the messenger,
for the pictures in my mind are not always tender.
Put upon me like a burden, to carry out the pen's will,
hours I will spend, unloading it in a gigantic spill.
It may seem horrific, the pictures I am subject to conjur,
but until you're where I am, you don't know the power of it's lure.
A siren's song, that only I can hear,
I follow the call and try not to fear.
I've been taken to strange lands, where the sun is a bloody hue,
where the land is cracked and broken, from a war long through.
Coffins lay abroad, scattered and tossed like broken dolls,
where children dance around them, unaware of the evil in the falls.
Devils stalk like wolves, circling their prey,
all along this strange dark world where danger is at play.
But I see beauty and serenity as well, I truly do,
along a small lagoon where there are lovers two.
Laying in the moonlight, singing in a language I cannot understand,
while the wind caresses the trees with an ever gentle hand.
So, you see, this little tool of mine is as wonderful as any,
and I wouldn't trade it for the finest paintbrush, not for a single penny.
though it doesn't look the same, not of ordinary stands.
Insanity your eyes are saying, with this skeptical play of speech,
but I tell you, it is capable, this I beseech.
I must admit it is a pen, but open your narrow mind,
and perhaps if you search, a tool of masterpiece you may find.
For I can't dip it into different shades and hues, but what I can do,
is paint a picture with words, if you will allow me to.
See, if I talk of a hill, I can sketch the luminous green,
the bright sun overhanging the subtle beauty; all this can be seen.
In your mind perhaps, but isn't this a greater treasure?
Nothing can limit you there, nothing whatsoever.
Masterpieces with this little pen of mine,
though it isn't pretty, better than a paintbrush in design.
To most I'm not an artist, and I won't say I'm great,
but isn't creating pictures the same definition to date?
It is my vice, my glory, my passion, my love,
nearer and dearer to me, though I can't contain it like a dove.
Some days I struggle and stare, the pen of mine quivering,
while the want of release within me is constantly pending.
And other days it comes with ease, flowing unrestrained,
letting me guide it here and there, creating the picture I've ordained.
Ultimately though, I am just the messenger,
for the pictures in my mind are not always tender.
Put upon me like a burden, to carry out the pen's will,
hours I will spend, unloading it in a gigantic spill.
It may seem horrific, the pictures I am subject to conjur,
but until you're where I am, you don't know the power of it's lure.
A siren's song, that only I can hear,
I follow the call and try not to fear.
I've been taken to strange lands, where the sun is a bloody hue,
where the land is cracked and broken, from a war long through.
Coffins lay abroad, scattered and tossed like broken dolls,
where children dance around them, unaware of the evil in the falls.
Devils stalk like wolves, circling their prey,
all along this strange dark world where danger is at play.
But I see beauty and serenity as well, I truly do,
along a small lagoon where there are lovers two.
Laying in the moonlight, singing in a language I cannot understand,
while the wind caresses the trees with an ever gentle hand.
So, you see, this little tool of mine is as wonderful as any,
and I wouldn't trade it for the finest paintbrush, not for a single penny.