Everybody loves the finished thing Nobody sees the floor Nobody sees the hundred little deaths That happened there before They hear the song and picture Some machine behind a screen Like I whispered, "Make it beautiful" And beautiful appeared for me That's fair If all you ever saw Was the flower in the vase You might think somebody bought it there And simply found its place You didn't see the garden You didn't see the dirt You didn't see what got pulled out Because the roots didn't work So tell me When does a tool become the artist? When does the hammer build the house? If I hand you every tool I use Do the same songs just come out? Same buttons Same machine Same everything you see So why would what grows out of you Grow exactly like what's in me? I learned that lesson way before A machine could make a song I used to draw stick-figure wars And Jesus Christ, they sucked Absolutely fucking horrible But I loved making them enough To keep making ugly pictures Till the ugly started changing Pencil turned to painting Painting led to clay Hands that couldn't make shit yesterday Learned another way Then somebody bought my artwork Funny Nobody called the pencil talented Nobody looked at what I'd made And gave the paintbrush all the credit They understood the obvious: The tool was in my hand Maybe that's why this conversation Feels stranger where I stand When does a tool become the artist? When does the hammer build the house? If I hand you every tool I use Do the same songs just come out? Maybe making isn't only Making something from the air Maybe it's the thousand little choices Nobody knows were there Why'd that line survive? Why'd that one die? Why'd the obvious disappear? Why'd we hide the answer long enough To make the question pull you near? Why'd something funny turn profound? Why'd something pretty get erased? Maybe choosing what does not belong Is part of what we make And that's when this got personal Because I've been here before I was bad at being an artist Till I walked through that door I was sure I'd never use AI Till I walked through one more Maybe worlds that don't look made for us Are sometimes worth exploring Not because every door is destiny Not because every road is right Just because you cannot see a world From standing outside I don't know I like that answer lately I don't know It leaves the windows open I don't know Means something might still happen I would've never chosen And maybe that's the craft I'm trying hardest now to learn Not music Not machines How to stay somebody Who can turn When the evidence gets bigger Than the story in my head When the thing I called impossible Starts breathing there instead So hand me the same tools Hand 'em out to everyone Let's see what everybody builds When all the buttons are the same Some will build a doorway Some will build a wall Some will make a masterpiece Some won't make shit at all And I don't say that laughing That's the beautiful part Tools can amplify intelligence But they need somewhere to start Maybe that's a lifetime: Finding things you cannot do Loving them enough to suck at them Until they teach you something new So if you hear the finished flower And wonder where it grew Don't ask what made the flower Ask what somebody chose to do With the dirt With the water With the light they let come through Same tools Different gardens I wonder what grows in you.
