I sat in a golden night with a stick of lead.
Peace and tranquility filled my wistful head.
An insomniac pleasure of expressions left on paper.
Like a flash that ignited the wick of taper.
What others see, I observe.
What others yearn, I reserve.
I am an artist from day to night.
As long as the tintinnabulation played,
In my head I shall remain
To stain those of lacking creative sustain.
A wall, a ball, a glass you people call “tall”.
I worked in a stall to make money for all
A charity you may call it
I saw it as practice, so that’s what I called it.
I even drew a chocolate
It was a request, don’t be dreary.
These little things we call art
How funny do they look?
How funny do they smell?
They even make sounds for you, who cares.
I make them for you to stare.
From an archairchal impression
entirely made into modern impression.
After years of exploration,
I sat there in mad expostulation
With whom do I reason?
To myself for no reason.
In a snap of a finger
I wake up from a trance to linger
What was once golden heat,
Is now a bronze breeze.
Only the sky will tell
When the ground shall turn silver.
Whether it be silver, bronze, or gold
I am an artist living for one goal.
To express, not to impress.