Artistry pt2

The skateboard tale is epic, the ride is skeptic like lighting bolts and sticks feeling hopeless.
I am the artist with empty canvases, visualising the natural imagery, brush strokes to talk open hearted my concept.
Thoughts parallel to create his exhibited blob the walk.
Elaborate his colourful wheel to spin spin spin my plans of palette jazz.
Let The Victoria & Albert Museum rise from the page.
Let it create manifest its tides to watercolour orchestration.

Don't try to hide your skateboard flows.
I was there scouting your crew's tricks.
I've drawn the freelancer that energises wavy thrusts, the Bansky burials of Graffiti language, settling in college buildings.
The urban art for future generations.
I was the Art and the Design department of your course.
Settling on residential walls that causes controversial migration, authorities cleaning your controversy.
Warning young offenders a £500 fine will hang on your name, and yet you know the ground so well.
That's why they run, creating spray can destructions.
See language is trivial, you know the chalks are watching those pavements the travellers just keep on walking not caring, not staring at your fate.
It's in your space so own it.
Go on it's in your space so own it.
Grab it before it's too late, it's in your space so OWN IT!!!
Your skateboard shows ramps on Nimbus, fly into space, land on Jupiter if you must.
Take trips to space cadets, take the Trafalgar Square Bus tour on the rise through Sky sanctuary, go and see...everything.
Everything in Tony Hawkes inspires me, encourages me to mold your made up fantasy life to the extreme.
Live the way you want it without restrictions or limits.

I told you the tale is epic, I told you the tale is epic.
Don't deny your youthful light on those swings, open space said "express my child, go ahead and express your arts, use prix stick from children's trays, paper mache dreams, Captain America made of Marvel straws. Use the tools of brown sugar. Use the 2B lead, compass your globe, invent your own country."
Clapham Common hasn't forgotten your basketball dreams.
I play the one on one of the court.
The BMX don't mind, where your chalk dreams your nursery scribbles.
The kids don't mind the creations dabbed on your sketchbook lookouts.
I've drawn the Mutsang GT on sunset fun set, I've burned the background into 60 degrees.
Don't try and hide the wind brush that tells magical places and masterpieces.
Treasure lands are your astronomy, so shove thirty telescopes in Mallorca, she'll let you in her world.
Invite thousands of alcoholics to her whore poetry Magaluf.
Don't let unwanted peers ruin your ambition, scribble your dreams to fly with the impressionism.
I don't care for lost times in clubs, the ladies will find the next player in army shorts and NBA vest.
I don't care for your trendy Pumas giving the heads up to be hip like Justin Biber.
The artistry shares expressionism on another canvas in Tate Modern shores, photography looks at the shadows that inspire life on Emmanuelle, life as Taylor Wessing.
Let the life drawings glow on my palms, let them feel your perspective catch the tunnel from the distance.
Let the naked wall paint your Rubix Cube that paints cubism to another world distant than Pluto.
Exhibition has birds fluttering god's angels that speak lighting, Zeus powers generating mythology to life.
The crust is descending your moon biscuit.
I went to National Portrait Gallery and rooted for Turner paintings is watercolour beautiful, Van Gogh impressionism captures my imagination on those New York nights in the stars, spotlight cars will flair their headlights in your alleyway.

He told me to be the conductor of your science museum let my works connect, let the drums commence your Mars to rock.
Stick magic in your trumpet dome, your golden silence shall awaken Barbican poets and beyond your human brush can colour.
Your human brush will open the vortex to beauty canvas all over the make ups you wear, all the earrings glistening lost diamonds crust of hope.

I told you the tale is epic.

Forever treason, your art smothers me from mosaic scriptures, painted Pre-Raphaelites to artistically connect me with me.
I felt episodes of your William Morris tattooed on my brown skin nature's world to be evergreen, I was like word.
Your Bristol Museum doesn't know me well, doesn't believe my art exists, I've only met you once on the motoway.
Shall we glide on the hard shoulder, steal the 57 miles of Blackpool.
The real life is a canvas, life inherits colour cos without colour there is no canvas.

I told you the tale is epic.
I told you the tale is epic.
I told you the tale is epic.