Song parody of
Create
by Micah Kimber
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A boy stands alone in a corner clutching a book
A corner because it makes him feel safe, a book so that he can escape
He picks up a pen and in his hands it makes a sound
Like the latch of an iron gate, heavy and grating
Well weathered against times of neglect, even shame
But as patient for it's keeper as the road for the wheel
He lifts the book cover-a crane carrying a foundation or a stork the first babe of a generation
Either way we all know how beginning can feel
He leafs through pages
Licks his fingers like wounds, peeling back paper like layers of dead skin and new
He was young then, still thinking that to feel is to heal
He places the pen between margins, script flows from his head like a mane
Planting his heart like a garden, giving his vision a name
Every stroke is a river, every river bears life
Yes, the hurt write in blood, but at least you know they won't lie
His pen dances like myths echo over hills, through the mist
Watch the glimmer in the corner become fire in our midst
He was made to create
His soul's a creation, you could call art innate
To write is to build, sculpt, direct, and to paint
To express in his image, give back the glory God gave
A boy stands alone in a corner clutching a book
A corner because it makes him feel safe, a book so that he can escape
He picks up a pen and in his hands it makes a sound
Like the latch of an iron gate, heavy and grating
Well weathered against times of neglect, even shame
But as patient for it's keeper as the road for the wheel
He lifts the book cover-a crane carrying a foundation or a stork the first babe of a generation
Either way we all know how beginning can feel
He leafs through pages
Licks his fingers like wounds, peeling back paper like layers of dead skin and new
He was young then, still thinking that to feel is to heal
He places the pen between margins, script flows from his head like a mane
Planting his heart like a garden, giving his vision a name
Every stroke is a river, every river bears life
Yes, the hurt write in blood, but at least you know they won't lie
His pen dances like myths echo over hills, through the mist
Watch the glimmer in the corner become fire in our midst
He was made to create
His soul's a creation, you could call art innate
To write is to build, sculpt, direct, and to paint
To express in his image, give back the glory God gave
