Mostly relaxed, partly cracked
I wish to know the reason of black.
It's so many colors, still the color is black and that's the kind of confusion that the mind wears when the artistic genitals are in the breath rolling through the head.
An artist's mind, can never be predicted in simple words of hay.
They only speak the word of art, in every form as there way.
I only wish that the pshycotic motion of the art stays there and leaves a say.
Saying it all that they can't speak through there lips as the sound chokes in there throat with every breath when it's tough to convey.
They just speak the way they want and never fail to convey.
A mind of an artist never leaves it till its not a convey.
