Poem: I Am An Artist

Why should artists find it hard

To make an honest living,

When everyday, they spend themselves

In thoughtful, heartfelt, giving?

Each Artist is an Alchemist

Transmuting pain to gold;

The searchlight of their consciousness

Mining wonders to behold.

Each Artist is an Architect

Raising glory out of thought;

Building hope, uncircumspect

Manifesting substance out of nought.

Each tiny win, each bitter tear,

Each emotion holds its pearl;

Each tiny step, forward or back,

Defines my Artist’s World.

To staunch the flow, I’d have to hold my breath

Until my lips turned blue;

My Art must spring, unblocked, unbidden

As, to myself, I’m true.

My Poetry, My Paint, My Prose

Is my exhalation of each spark inspired!

Released, expressed, I so plant my seeds –

Bemused by what next transpires…

For some words take root, push forth green shoots,

And others fail and fall;

Some rhymes bear fruit and touch the heart,

But my soul loves one and all.

You see “I Am An Artist” – in bone, in blood,

In thought, in deed, in word;

To deny this fact, denies myself:

A thought, I judge absurd!

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