It is every artist’s dream…
To create the world how it is seen…
Through that artist’s mind…
It is every artist’s aspiration…
To somehow display their creation…
For the world to find…
As the artist recreates his views…
With words, or paint, or whatever he may choose…
That artist’s thoughts are left behind…
They are instilled in his art…
To later be admired – or torn apart…
The art is to be defined…
But who can define the thoughts of someone else…
Can the art ever express the intended idea outside of self?
The artist somehow seems confined…
His pastels and film, his sculptures and his words…
All speak a language only the artist has heard…
The work is done, but humanity is blind…
To the intended depiction…
Much against the artist’s benediction…
The art is not, for others, designed.
So being that this art is only created for self…
Since its truth can be fathomed by nobody else…
Why does the artist feel so inclined…
To create again what he has already attempted…
Why has the artist never relented?
He has only refined…
Maybe it is because the artist’s hand…
Must create the art… to create the man…