Why do painters enjoy the thrill of paint?
I miss the Tuesday nights, hanging out with my father.
I'm not going to give up what I want, I'll stay strong.
My feelings and my thoughts are read on this paper.
As the sun rises, I love the sight of that sky...blue.
When we talk, I hear your voice like music.

Your voice symbolizes each sound, like notes of music.
How do you ruin a perfectly clean canvas? Paint.
I love looking into your eyes, and all I can see is blue.
One of the persons I look to the most is my father.
It's a damn shame that our nation revolves around green paper.
One of her best qualities is that she's independent and strong.

The legs she uses to pick herself up, they're weak, but strong.
As I turn the dial clockwise, the vibrations are in sync with the music.
The grocery stores are going green, no more asking, " Plastic or paper?"
The next art project requires either charcoal or paint.
I am the man I am today, because of my father.
The water is erie black, yet daytime comes, and it's blue.

As the shower pours out water, the pressure is warm and strong.
My favorite pair of jeans, comfy and fit, are denim blue.
The man upstairs looks over me, and I call him father.
Putting my headphones on, I listen to the sound of music.
Moving the brush side to side, I paint.
The money isn't there anymore, he ended our subscription to the paper.

To start the nice warm fire, I use old paper.
The flame reaching such a temperature, the base is blue.
I'm empty on the inside, and I would rather watch walls dry of paint.
I look back at our relationship, and I probably came on too strong.
As Lupe spits to his beat, he creates music.
I want to have kids when I'm older, and become a father.

Fifteen years from now, I look forward to the day of the fathers.
Hospitals are going with technology, no more paper.
Things that make me smile in life are necessary, like music.
I cheer for my team every week, wearing maze and blue.
The heroes of September 11th, qualify as army strong.
I now comprehend why painters enjoy the thrill of paint.

I look into my fathers eyes, and the gentle shade of blue.
I write the poetic thoughts on paper, my grip proper; strong.
The music my ears listen for, is often expressed with paint.