An Artist Is A Man Who Says

There Is Moss On The Walls And The Stain Of Thought And Failure And Waiting

I Would Certainly End Up Forever Crying The Blues Into A Coffee Cup In A Park For Old Men Playing Chess Or Silly Games Of Some Sort.

Hate Contains Truth. Beauty Is A Facade.

You Were Destroyed By What You Befriended.

And The Color In My Eyes Has Gone Back Into The Sea.