He was painting himself
In the middle of the night
He lights a cigarette
To feed the darkness some light
He never wanted to be more
Than extraordinary
Painted his eyes like the sky
That melts into the sea

He will look at his unimpressed skepticism
Waiting patiently for the day that someone sees him
Not made of porcelain pleasantries
He's unique, you will see

He was writing today
And when the ink had left the page
He was drawn into a world
That he created
He had a bookshelf for his heart
A typewriter in his brain
Lived a life within his head
Believe me when I say

He will look at his unimpressed skepticism
Waiting patiently for the day that someone sees him
Not made of porcelain pleasantries
He's unique, you will see