Painter

If I were to paint you, tell me where I would begin
When you defy every color, shape and style
What’s the center of your body? What’s the essence of your skin?
What tragedy do you have beneath your smile?
And every time I start to sketch, I lose the larger image
You aren’t your eyes, your clothing or your hair
Like a longer lasting feeling, without a start, without a finish
I can’t paint the wind but I know it’s there
I guess there’s just things you can’t explain
I guess there’s just things you can’t explain
And If I to rhyme, I’d get lost in metaphor
Writing a thousand books that wouldn’t sell
And if no one ever reads them, then what’s all the writing for?
I guess it’s just a comfort to myself
Like a wedding in the middle of a hurricane
Like a funeral on the perfect summer’s day
If you tried too hard to define it, lose the thread and go insane
I guess there’s just things you can’t explain
Like a wedding in the middle of a hurricane
Like a funeral on the perfect summer’s day
If you tried too hard to define it, lose the thread and go insane
I guess there’s just things you can’t explain