An artist's block song.
Professors of proportion
Are some professionals,
and champions of charisma
make the cleanest messy walls
And sometimes I would think to buy
myself a trinket, story, all the
perfectly imperfect lines and colors
and shapes big and small
Sing a song of melodies
for each and every eye
for weak-willed weeks
for claws and beaks
for leaf and rock and sky
O- what? so wondrous heard?
of man and place and word
The "starving artist" buys a coffee.
His face is long, his eyes are tired.
He does not smile,
And at the back of his otherwise unmoving expression
There is a twitch of fear.
"I take my place among millions, and cry out,
a pencil line in a mad sea of black ink."
His well of relevance has run dry
His beloved muse run away.
A hollow memory looks the same as a joyous dream if only you squin