Artists Never Die

You will never see
The things I keep inside of me,
You will never know
The things that I have failed to show,
You cannot see the things I hide,
Cannot see what’s locked inside,
A day will come and I will die,
Holding treasures and foolish pride,
From cold lips, you will never pry,
The secrets of a life, lived and died
A foolish man, you will say,
Covetous and full of pride,
Jealous and afraid to try,
Why did he pass away without saying what he must say?
All these things taken to grave,
By men too afraid, to be brave,
The wasted words, never said,
We think as we convulse in bed,
Those words running through our head,
Wasted words, left unsaid,
No more wasted words
I must show
If I am to grow
I must be
The change I wish to see
I must be,
Not for me,
But for those I leave behind,
Some solace and some peace of mind,
Some help in some trying times,
Some truth amongst all the lies,
Some words written to open eyes,
A piece of me with no demise,
And at my end, no one cries,
Because an Artist never dies.

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