. . . . Up There . . . .

. . . "Up here" . . .
you belong - to another - world . . .
you wake up each morning - to climb up to the clouds . . .
to paint . . . to create . . . to give a part of me . . .
and the end of the day - climb back down to reality
go home - and think about . . . think about that other world - away . . .
from this one . . .
and yeah . . . we are the last of a dying breed - we are becoming extinct . . .
and we know it . . . yet we continue . . . to write on the clouds
to put color in the sky . . . for all those below to see . . .
and while you're there - up there - in the clouds - painting - working . . . they never notice you . . .
I have seen a back robbery - a mother giving birth right on Dekalb Avenue
A young man who they say went crazy suddenly & then did nothing all day - but sit by street a help a old people across . . .
Couples arguing - fighting - making love - then making up while they cook
and they never notice us . . . there . . . painting in clouds . . .
they never notice our work - our effort - our danger - our pain . . .
they forgot about our kind . . . a long time ago . . .
our story is a hand painted book - long forgotten - really high - on a dusty old shelf on a cloud . . .
but we keep on . . . we are the the last of a special type of dinosaur . . .
this is what we do - paint on clouds - we don't know how to do anything else - & to be honest, I wouldn't wanna do anything else . . .
and what we do . . . we do so well . . . I am proud - even though it don't pay much . . .
but the feeling "up there" is a small price to pay - for everything else . . .