You want to know what stands between
The things they write, and what I mean?
Not one word have I wrote and thought
I hope this is something they bought
The words I write aren’t things to sell
They’re all just stories that I tell
Art is not a craft of number
Art is lightning, sometimes thunder
Don’t confuse these words of mine
With those who write to clock their time
I do not care for seed or sow
These pages are my mind’s chateau
They hold my thoughts and all my pleas
And bottle all my memories
If I pulled out this cork and screw
This world would not know what to do
Repent I must, this mind of mine
It torments me all of the time
Pause a moment, breathe, and calm
In this ink; my sacred psalm
How the World Should Work 