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.
Copyright © Alexis Thompson | Year Posted 2025
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