I wish that I could create art
like masters painting worlds apart—
the kind that lingers in the mind,
haunts your dreams, and persists in time.
The kind that sets the soul ablaze,
leaves critics lost in puzzled glaze,
makes whispers grow to shouts of rage,
and envy locks the cynics cage.
Yet here I stand with words alone,
for only quiet hearts can call them home.
My words are not grand,
they are simple, broken –
but in their cracks,
you may find truth being spoken.
For art flows best to longing souls,
not in halls of wealth and gold,
but where the silent voices yearn,
and simple words will brightly burn.
Yet who am I to judge or claim,
if I am just a fool all the same?
Still learning what my hands can do,
with only words to push me through.
The world moves fast, it won’t slow down,
no time for poets, lost or found.
But artists move outside the race,
to seek the light in shadow’s space.
And none can take this spark from me,
nor dim the fire of art in me.
For in the glow of candlelight,
I still see a thousand tales take flight.
Till my last breath, I will do art,
until death, do us apart.
Even when the world turns cold,
colors fade, and hands grows old,
I’ll paint the sky with words untold,
carve words in the silence, fierce and bold.
And when my hands can write no more,
and my echoes drift from shore to shore.
May someone see these lines and see,
I was an artist, too—just quietly.
Therefore I promise, with all my heart,
Till my last breath, I will do art,
until death, tears us apart.