An Artist Dilemma
Inquisitively enough I seem
though my sleep is uneasy
days pass by in customary fashion
yet my thoughts makes me queasy.
I am an artist in my hyped mind
a performer of the purest kind;
a writer without rhymes and sonnets
devoid of meters and couplets.
I am a painter with no paintings
lacking colours, pictures and oeuvres;
I’m also a dancer deprived of pace
exclusive of steps, rhythm and grace.
I am a lover who has no cravings
with no passion, thirst or yearnings;
an actor I was without scripts and props
I have no style, no actions and plenty flops.
I ridicule the finished works I do
the clichéd outcomes of my coarse thrill;
my life, my mind and my break through
all of which casual to my mediocre skill.
The complete this my work of art
which will crown the inventive heart;
it will enslave my life with awkwardness
show cynics the power of self-consciousness.
Now I am in my final realisation
I will shudder with expectation;
I shall walk in hands with obscurity
where death is my only security.
My works I hate intensely cause of the past
though I am badly bound to it I feel an outcast;
is this the metaphor of my existence?
Always ready to crush any guilty resistance .