The Painter and A Poet

When all else fails, I can fall onto the attic. Because in that attic, it really is a magical place. I call it home, and I'm never gonna leave it. Purposefully places items, secluded hearts that have incredible stories to tell, everyone huddled together, where we all think beautifully. I can be beautiful, too. But not gourgeous head-over-heels beautiful. It's not something seen, but something felt. Something you can't quite explain. But it's there. My hands tell the story for me well.