Twisting truth, making it mine. The world rests in my hands. Nothing can change it but I. Molding, shaping, carving life finding my reality within this bloody lie. Withered, cracked, and calloused hands reach for oil and paint. Create that place, the one you see and climb inside to stay. An artist never settles for merely what he has disappointed by what we got, we start again from scratch. Ink, the weapon, canvas a shield staving off the barren truth tings change when one man dies, why nothing as it's hoards? Erase the troubles, touch up mistakes -AND RUN- split up, bloodied, broken hands caress the artist's wounds. Terrified of what's inside, he's out to fill the holes. An artist never settles for merely what he's got And they don't care, they leave them there To lie in shadow and rot.