It is a dangerous thing, to create.
To throw a soul onto a canvas for critics.
Misunderstood symbols and jumbled interpretations,
failing to see that green is green and red is red.
But my hands explode art.
Unable to separate the messy cerebral,
from the outright beautiful.
Rainbow thoughts become back-of-the-envelope poems.
It is a dangerous thing, to create,
until you consider the alternative.