by Nick Gisburne
The pencil drafts his dangerous designs
With passion few can truly understand
A wall of bright, illuminating lines
Revolvers, fired in anger from the hand
Emotions, ragged, ripped at any cost
Are scattered with fanatical disdain
Spectacular realities are crossed
Unshackled, wounded, suffering, insane
The critics, ever questioning his art
Contrive a slur of sacrilege and crime
But always he will sabotage the heart
With devious and devastating rhyme
The pencil pours his fury into song
And those who can believe it will belong
