| The artist oh the artist, behold perfection in his masterpiece
|
| He opens up his mind and spreads it across canvas
|
| An expression of who he is
|
| He opens up his heart and spreads it across canvas
|
| This perfect creation, it is a part of him
|
| Corner to corner and detail to detail
|
| From out of nothing
|
| Sewing together the creativity
|
| Each and every work he treasures
|
| And weighs them all equally
|
| This is the workmanship of his fingertips
|
| And resonates his legacy
|
| The critics will heave their detest
|
| But he will not be dismayed
|
| The artist is confident in what his work is worth
|
| His assessment will not be swayed by any mortal man
|
| They build significance
|
| All of their life’s blueprints on top of faulty foundations
|
| Their malice tongues are all wrapped in lies
|
| Like the way the fire encompasses the red embers
|
| So who is the one to name the worth of this art
|
| Can it be the breeze as it whispers by
|
| Is it man or beast, does the art have words to speak
|
| Nothing comes for free, what is the price to be paid
|
| What’s the worth, who’s to say its worth
|
| The value it cannot be earned
|
| But the creator alone is the only one to determine
|
| What his craft is worth
|
| «What if I told you that you are a reflection of a king
|
| I breathed forth galaxies
|
| But I swear that you still mean so much more to me
|
| I purchased you with sacrifice
|
| You are my art
|
| You are my prized
|
| So I purchased you with my life
|
| I paid the highest price, but you were worth it |