You stroke a brush across the page,
and brilliant colors trace the day.
Did you know you'd be loved today,
or think "it too will fade away."?

You write your pain upon the page
wishing to be free of this cage.
You didn't know what you had done,
or that you'd be-of the greatest-one.

You sing the words of pain and demise,
not caring if there was a prize.
Did you know they'd notice you?
Or that you'd be great someday too?

These people worked toward a dream.
They lived their hopes.  What does it mean?
They had the courage-once-to stand.
Just like you-but you think you can't.

I'm not saying you must be great,
but work toward your dream today.
For it could bring you happiness,
which in the end with all be worth it.