Too often you are misplaced
Not allowed in the culture of art.
Sailors and rebels could tell you different
But society hasn’t accepted your position.
Yet your craft is true and pure
Who else is willing to dabble in the blood of ambition?
The low hum of needles and smears of ink
Reflect your passion, making you unique.
A canvas for only a lifetime, no museum to hang your art.
But that isn’t what drives you.
Watching a person’s persona come to life under your gun,
Each line representing the pain of life endured,
Each smear of ink representing the tears wiped clean,
Each color reviving life back into your soul,
That is what drives you.