I was apparently feeling quite bitter when I wrote this a few years ago...
Artistry
The world, it seems, has lost its sense of art--
The painters and the poets go unknown
To ply their crafts, neglected and alone,
Translating the impetus of the heart.
The critics still exist to tear apart
Each earnest scrap of artistry they're shown:
They snidely crush the spirit, then bemoan
Our lack of modern Monet or Mozart.
The penchant for creation has become
A lonesome avocation, lost for some,
In favour of the humdrum and mundane;
The inward artist, inward must remain,
To drown in shallowness, and try to numb
The harshness of rejection, and the pain.
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