Everyone is an artist in their own right
Some paint the world bright
And others add shades of darkness
But they too are artisans regardless

Every dawn I wake 
To hear the sweet sound of my little sister’s laughter,
To smell the sweet smell of my mother’s pancakes
They paint my mornings pink with love thereafter

Every morning I see a woman frantic
She spills her coffee on her blouse, just another antic
Hastily, she speeds to catch the train
Her spills of coffee on the ground create an abstract domain

Never to forget the lovely lady
Who sells churros at her crowded corner
Side by side with her little baby
Her warm smile paints comforting streaks of brown to any stranger

And last but not least, to the boy always looking down
With his headphones in and a slight little frown
He sits in his seat on the train often in dismay,
But perhaps that music in his ears is what brings color to his day

There is not a single person in this world
That is insignificant, as so
The place we call home, every soul has twirled,
So we can say everyone is a bit of a Picasso.