Those who are born,
with an artistic bent,
Would seem to have received,
a gift heaven sent.
And that may be so,
though if you ignore the calling,
You’d be constantly hounded,
by your souls inner yearning.
For like it or not,
your destiny is set,
You’ll spend your life
with a messy palette.
Heel to toe,
at your easel you’ll stand,
Trying to create
an image so grand.
Yet there may be days
when the canvas stays blank,
‘Cause all your best efforts,
just totally stank.
But then inspiration
may pop in your head,
And wildly the paint
you eagerly spread.
Daubs and smears
you try to control,
Expressing this gem
you’d like to extol.
At long last you finish,
stand back and admire,
Just knowing this art
a fan will acquire.
But, alas, no one cares
or even understands,
What you’ve tried to convey - -
and with your own two hands..!
So you begin to wonder,
does the world need another painting?
Obviously not,
or the public would come flocking.
You’ll ultimately wind up,
just painting for yourself,
Though gladly accept cash,
if one exits your shelf..!
Bruce Bigelow
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-aspiring-painter/
