then there was colour

I had to centre myself, be at one Take a step back from all that I've created and realise what it is that I have done My art is an extension of my heart and is not laid Before the public in order to be judged I need to realize that Each time I step on a stage I become so afraid And I hate who it is that I become A nervous wreck, a shadow of my former self now I know these words sound dumb as I stand upon a stage And perform a piece that I originally created purely for the fun For the escape, for what it means to me I need to realise that the microphone is not my enemy It is here to magnify, amplify all that is in me When faced with it my words will clutch the air in each lung My brain forgets how to send signals to my tongue Betrayed by my own instincts my instincts scream That I should create I should perform But my legs, my legs tell me I should run Even in the studio I can be as comfortable as possible but the nerves are colossal The words are there, the beats prepared, and I buckle I know how I should sound, how I should look I remember the emotion when the lyrics inside poured out I pretend that I have tried everything I pretend no one will hear it, I pretend I don't care But when I hit R keyboard and logic enables record The metronome clicks one, two, three, four I feel so scared I am obsessed with perfection, with honesty, with trust, with creation And it is so hard trying to juggle these things When you're subconsciously unwilling wanting protection I cannot stand the way I sound on certain songs I cannot stand how much I hold back when I perform Turns out I have been searching for confidence in all the wrong places Thinking that the more words I laced through pages The less scared I would be on the rare occasions my feet take to stages I was wrong It's all down to the experience. The shows. The people. The life that lived The energy. The art. The talent. Create... My gift I am so done being ashamed of my art I am a rapper That sentence is normally followed by an explanation... You know not the chavy type, it's more old school, more poetic, less harsh So scared of being judged. So scared of being thought of as less What makes me feel my art worthless. thought as the lesser to express And even more to the point. Why do I care Why do I burden myself with the thoughts of worry of what lies Behind the eyes of those blank stares Writing means the world to me and is the fibre of my very being Though I am lacquered in self doubt. Self destruction. Self sabotage I cannot deny this feeling I am done with the courteous seek of approval and the want to be appealing This is ours. our art. our creation. our love This is made from dust and dreamer's blood