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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required "300" But this won't suffice.. "It isn't exotic to pay such a price" How my sleepless nights and joy forgotten If this isn't sold my family shall be trodden The society seems correct when they say This "mere hobby" will not pay What special lies in these brushes and blobs They say And I like a fool listen in dismay "Anyone can sketch and smear" But who does understand To me my canvas and strokes are dear Today I have a family to .. feed This brush and a small thin paper was my toy Oh! How much I loved painting Nature felt like a colouring book I admired God's painting skills sitting by the clear water rills But my father-his hands knew stone A sculptor of the village yet unknown With chisel and hammer, he carved with grace Yet despair always shadowed his face No one saw the Gods he shaped The lifelike eyes, the figures draped. No one paid for his gifted hand For art,they said,was worthless and bland. As a naive child I thought I would not face what he had seen But here I am Sitting beside the road with eyes so keen Looking up at passers by Is there a heart to listen my cry? My paintings layered with dust they stand Painted by a hopeless hand I bring them here I take them home In my mind despair begins to roam Do I betray my soul to survive? Or betray my family to keep art alive? People stop, people see, Their gazes filled with pity for me. Someone halts, someone asks, "What’s the price?"—a moment that lasts. "1000," I say, hope in my voice. "Huh," he scoffs—like I have no choice. "300," I sigh, lowering my gaz.e. "Okay, sir," I nod, masking the pain. For a man who has faked a meal outside, So his family could eat with stomachs satisfied, Tonight, perhaps, I’ll finally sit at the table, Not as a starving artist, but as a father—stable.
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