Have you every wonder if your story was ever told,by an artist,with paint in hand.A drawing,a sketch.nk.chalk,a pencil,what the colors would convey.Time standing still in a frame.A moment,a second.A day,of a mere motion creating your destiny.A protrait of what was.is and should be.MIchael Angelo,Divinci.Rapheial,and all the greats,Laugh at them.shun them,Then admire,and respected by all.They gave us a peice of themselves,without hesitaion.Seven years never did one rest until story wa stold.A creation,no other can imitate.An orginal,from hand to canvas,from a dreamer.If they create your life with a brush,paint or clay.Would you scold,tease,or adore,and graciously applaud,their magnificant,mastery.Life's moments in an sculture,precious time stood still.Different yet same,a writer,an artist.Creations of someones soul.A pen in hand smoothly,stroking the paper,and instructment of a writer's whisper.A brush stroking a canvas,creating a vision of infinity.All the same.yet not.Have you ever wonder what your life would say within a pen at hand of a writer.
