What is art
But a crying of the heart
To hear the words you cannot speak.
It is when we try
To voice the distant cry
When everything is dark and bleak.

It is when we draw
Upon the hidden sore
And show it to the waking world.
To show the hiding spark
Deep within your heart;
The torn, blistered, curled.

To feel the shove
Of unexpected love
That shreds your battered soul apart.
But no one hears
For they have not the ears
To hear the cry that is our art.