Notebook

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I showed him my notebook

The underside of my soul

Released in the scribbles of pages

He smiled and held my hand

I knew that he would never see

For he dreams of touching beauty, too

There has to be more than the work day

He's painting houses

He's painting houses for awhile

The home to his canvas

Coming to life



I write in my notebook

With feelings that takes me by surprise

And thoughts that I don't know I have

They're hidden by useless facts

That I've compiled at the office where I work

Where there is no time for feeling anything

You see, I just work there

To finance my real life

That begins with scribbles on pages

And thoughts of "how" and "when"



Museums on Sundays

Whenever we can both go

And stay there for hours

Feeding our spirits

Beauty is still free

Beauty is not exclusive

Beauty is ours to touch and to know

To touch and know



Don't you think there's more?

I really have to know

Don't you think there's more to life?

Don't you think there's more to life