The Artist


In the artists lair in the middle of nowhere,
rests a solitary chair, and without any fanfare
the visionary throws color everywhere.
The canvas gives up it's former blank stare
to the dream of the man to hasn't a care.
Red, blue, greens no space he will spare
passion of his creation fills the damp air.
When he is done he sits in the chair
squinting his eye, his soul he did bare
the world will witness a talent so rare.
Covered in paint from his feet to his hair
the starving artists has nothing to wear,
but old weathered skin that can easily tear.
He fell asleep in that solitary chair
leaving behind his loneliness and despair,
never having to live through another nightmare.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem