My my voice, my will
Are as mighty as your deity.
Just as busy moments become still,
Speeding up the mental drill,
All respect Creators as they were meant to be.
What you slip into in the mornings
What you crawl underneath after tiring evenings
That from which your daily tea is sipped
And even the inks and oils in which our very own brushes are dipped.
That so-called payment in exposure
Does not exist during the hard times of our early departure
Rather those whom are heavily sought for
Are us Creators
But in my waking life
While others self-immerse in the traditional, raw art,
I frolic in the digital fields of glossy periodical papers.
Will my true efforts be known in their heart?
If not, may this world restart
And allow all to respect efforts made by us Creators.
And to be deemed no less
No less than the life-savers
No less than the engineers and aviators,
And definitely no less
Than this system that produces no progress,
None to raise the status of Creators.
Will it end when we decide to cater?
I will not yield with no fight,
So help me begin ridding this world of the Creators' plight.