[Verse 1] Violet kaleidoscope closed and eyelids open again To see leaves pushed by the wind It's cold, my breath in the air Up the stairs to upstairs where we live I can see past our bricks to other brick buildings I'd like to grab my marker and draw Look to my pa He smiles through his beard I tug at it He hands me a green one Puts a piece of paper up A painting of his hanging above what I'm drawing It's so colorful I'm standing in his shadow I scribble My mom laughs I must have done something great Time for a break I lower my head Fall asleep with them in my periphery [Verse 2] He wakes up with the KGB knocking at his door For the pieces he painted and exhibited the week before He's hiding artwork under his floor again Rumors about that circulated back to this particular officer He's here to put an end to it Lock my father away with the rest of his friends in the movement Life on the line just to prove that the people still have a right Would I have that kind of courage later down the line when I'm alive? Hard not be a conspiracy theorist after all your friends have died Under a subway train or in an apartment fire
Because of things that you believed in and decided to write Put a brush to the canvas and aspire to fly Handcuffs on, eyes closed How could he survive this life? How could he survive this life? [Verse 3] I open my eyes Been some time since he left And even though he brought our family to the US Where I'm free to express myself But still a slave to debt Repeatedly making art for someone else's financial benefit Cataloguing his works while listening to my catalogue of words Reflecting, wondering whether my pa**ion is dwarfed Am I still in his shadow or have I eclipsed it? Is the light inside bright enough? Is it worth fixing? And who really makes their own decisions? Am I an artist because I wanted to be? Or did he give me that ambition? Doubly supported by my mom and sister I was tossed into the system but bred by the resistance That's an interesting mix then Putting a price of my pa**ion so I can enjoy living But it's catching up Staring at a screen, I've had enough I'm going through shed after shed of his paintings stacked up I see the signs What would he have done? Trying to add it up