Black streaks and red lines. He never saw fear or night, Just a possibility in the opposite color of the sky. All we see are Marble slabs of nonsense, But really our eyes are just about to slip out of our heads As we forget that all our minds are different. I don't see you, but all the words I could write. They clarified their hearts with wet paper and sledge hammers, Like we all do - metaphorically. I hope I can leave some sort of artist legacy as these, Make my mark with ease. I didn't see a gallery of art, I saw a gallery of hearts; Raw and displayed. They expose the thing that for so long had only been theirs Now for the world. To live creatively is to be vulnerable. And hope maybe this heart on your sleeve Will transfer to a canvas, or photograph, So I may look and see your heart staring right back at me.