Lyrics
I want to feel that my jagged ends
Weren't accidents,
That the pen that drew my borders
Was steady as the chisel
That shaped the faces of Mount Rushmore
Before.
This brittle pen can write the word,
"Messiah."
The artistry of infinite thought
Was brought to Mom and Dad;
So squalling, and breathing, compared to
I Am
i was artfully broken and bent
In the pose of a statue who thinks he must
Change his place.
This breaking brush can paint the thought,
"Hallelujah."
This petulant potter, this underpaid author,
This adequate lover, this rat undercover,
This child for a time, this emotional mime,
This hound for the hunt, this
Sorry son
Has some paper to write on --
But his worlds are so small.
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