Standing there with a brush in his hand
Has no idea what he's going to do, hasn't got a plan
Just knows he has to create, has to get something out
Something that might be put up on a wall
Or something that might end up in a garbage can
In the end it isn't his concern if it's something
That will be admired
Or if it's something that is reviled, possibly despised
He simply must create
That is the curse that compels the drive
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