Self inscripting artist, I'm a walking eisel.
A mind that traffics graphics to the static canvas that I often think to.
Dip my tongue into the photogenic essence
That i swing relentlessly at all the senses of my common people.
The cruelest evil came a creepin, left me image-less,
fusing in my pallet; mixing colors for my bristles tip.
Imagination set and established in steaks of gray,
forced to recreate this physical plane i can't envision with.
Amidst the hardship, the brush stroke strikes the plight of my mind.
My art sharpens in the heart of a stark darkness.
A carcass of work, fights to find an eye for an eye.
Exploiting life: these lands of milk and honey are harsh arctics.
100 trillion photo receptors, crafted in the cosmos,
and not one can bend any light the planets swallow.
Cynically diss existence that can turn on you rapidly.
Know these lands in their majesty's a mirage you can't actually see.
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