To Be An Artist

Solemnly I sit in silence, slaving over scant sculptures I begin to carve away at the silky slip my tools gliding skillfully Although at a glance, I may seem serene inside there is a savage storm with not a moment of peace Although many think I’m skilled, I find not a single study that brings me satisfaction Born with the hands of an artist, but not the soul Simultaneously sanctified and scrutinized As I wade through the soiled waters of life Pondering my service to the world The public eye is a strange thing, soft souls always coming and going, never staying. support pouring from unseeing faces although appreciated, it doesn’t dare penetrate my safeguarded heart I find that when I sculpt, I craft a spotless image of the ideal savant A man unlike myself, A man who makes not a single mistake. Always seen as an unfinished sculpture, a sculpture to be molded and toyed with like a child and it’s dolls When I am not perfect, I am smacked down and rebuilt. As I smooth out the last of the scarred slip, I find that I am staring into a mirror. Glaring back at me is an imperfect but honest man. Soothingly, I know that I can rework and rebuild this shell And for once the savage storm subsides for I am an artist.