With every stroke my brush speaks for me,
uttering words my tongue is too coward to form.
But surely practice makes perfect
as I paint misery on these walls.
Expression is a privilege,
a distinction I don't have
but brushes bring inspiration to idiots
and I am a savant before an empty canvas.
The brush dances on the surface.
Giving life to fantastic stories,
giving birth to wild memories
only souls without chains could have lived.
Passion erupts from every bristle.
Melodies stir with every caress.
This is the sensation true artists feel
when sacred revelations dictate intellectual obligations.
The brush falls in completion,
distress never owned the soul.
The mural is finished yet i could never have told it,
misery is not the melody on these walls.