Painter make a world of art,
so real you think you can touch it,
but you can not.

Sculpters make a figure out of clay,
so beautiful in it's life-like state,
but it can not move.

Writers,
are altogether different.
We take the world,
and pull it away from reality,
let it run through our fingers,
till it is twisted and different,
we weave it and knead it,
cloak it in creativity,
transform this bland place into something we want,
bake it in an oven made of paper,
so it comes out as words.

Words and stories are not like paint,
because every person who reads it,
sees a life entirely different,
one that moves,
in a way sculputures can't,
that you can feel in your heart,
in a way art can't,
one that leaves a essence of magic,
in a way only a well-spun tale can.