It is paint splattering on the wall as laughter rings through the air.
It is a pencil scratching on a blank canvas waiting for meaning.
It is a typewriter clacking and stopping and break- break- breaking as the mind and muse collide.
It is colors waltzing and swirling while pixels be to cut in on a 50 inch dance floor.
It is clay bending, molding under the pressure of possibility in the potters hands.
The hands fight to sculpt… what?
In vain I struggle
In vain you struggle
In vain we struggle
Against the force that overtakes us as we add passion to life.