Thoughts On Why I Considered a Peeled Orange Painted 206 Years Ago

When the frustration with self and poetry can be described as the perfect spiral attempt of the peeling of an orange Investing so much time into perfecting something that matters to no one It's a creation, a part of your mind - why enter it into contests if there is a risk of the outcome affecting peace of mind? The risk is perhaps that it will be judged but perhaps more so inexplicable failure that leaves you wondering what's going on With greater effort comes greater failure, have I reached my quota of success perhaps? The intended aim reversed by this act of sharing - poetry causing mood dips Mirroring of life, the ever unanswered question - why does nobody like me The call gets a response, the right ones do, there is no issue Liking people or art is subjective, universal likes not worth having But the mind is tallying and analysing all there is to know - I gave my time and exposed my soul, so I acquire wounds which frustrate me - this is my fault alone Like peeling the orange - I can walk away, declare it a waste of time with bitter taste But if I look back - it's pretty and I enjoyed it the experience - the value still lies there So I looked at the still life 'orange and book' And reflect poetry can't record moments if I pause too frequently writing it down It can't be cathartic if expelling isn't enough It isn't a good/bad picture, it's art Perspective, mood, resonance, personal experiences, ulterior motives, expectation, time to study and more all affect whether art reaches someone In a gallery I have loved charcoal smudges and I've seen the world and all its struggles in the marks made - lost in the magic I may walk past realism or even a 'great' without caring to stop I need to stop looking for evidence of worth in the wrong places Artistic expression is great but something needs to be learnt: External validation Is fleeting happiness Achieved by risk The odds Are always against the player When you gamble ~FIN~ *the FIN is an attempt at humour following a strop that poetry can be therapeutic or just another thing to do your head in