Their once was a man with a paint brush
the was known as the best artist with the world.
that never ends well,
no never ends well
you see the man, yes the painter he painted his life like his work

which never ends well
no never ends well.

he wanted to be an accountant,
then he wanted to be a technician

a astrological
a cosmopologist
a sales man?
biologist?
at one point even a magician.

but no matter how hard he brushed and he padded,
each picture had failed in the end
not smart enough,
not rich enough,
not happy enough,
not good enough,

at some point, the man couldn't preteand

no he couldn't pretend

so he went with the one thing he knew how to do.
the one thing that he could do right.

to paint a picture on a page a escape from his tragic life

there's nothing wrong with painting
but most people are the same
when the grass looks a little brown
they have a reason to complain


his pictures were the images
of the life he never had
an accountant with a wife
a husband, and a dad

then there was his tour de force
though quiet and alone
a old man stood in the river waiting for God to take him home.

that picture how it teased him, like a reflection in a pond
a life in side a painting
traped in a place beyond

of course like all people, the man did die, found drowned inside his room
of course he had a funeral
he reasted in his tomb.

but..

deep inside the paintings
if you ignore the background blur
sitting far out on the rocks...
then again, who could be sure
the man lays on those rocks
he sits right there and paints
and for once in death, he's happy
content without complaint.
© Qwill Smith