A painter needs no reason to make a thing of art
Yes there's no switch to stop and start the flow,
A gardener has his season, his green thumb and his heart,
Don't ask a man why does your garden grow.
A poet sits for hours with words apon his tongue.
He can not help to rhythm his doom and gloom
So if you taste my flowers, you'll see that I'm among,
That certain group, that lucky troop for whom it's
Simply Second Nature, to wish away the grey, to take licorice stick and make a tree.
Yes there's no rhyme or reason,
I was simply made this way, what's strange to you is nature to me.
It's Simply Second Nature to paint outside the lines, it merely is the way that I was born
You see I've been selected to create the unexpected,
And make each day feel just like Christmas morn.
Picasso took a torso and turned it on it's head, it isn't right or wrong it's what he felt.
And Dali, even more so, would positively dread,
Explaining why his hands of time should melt.
And me, I take sweet honey and make a tasteful rose, what can I say it's simply what I do,
Some men make pots of money, they're happy I suppose,
But be grateful that for just a lucky few its...
Simply Second Nature, to see what isn't there, the mind is such a wonder to explore,
and though some nights I dread, all the voices in my head, I'd rather be this way than be a boar.
It's Simply Second Nature, to dream of something new,
Then wake on fire and try to sculpt each day,
It's no blessing, it's a curse! Wait, no Strike that, and Reverse
I wouldn't have it any another way...

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