There are those inclined to the maths
And those to the works of the body.
There are those that appeal to the handicrafts
And those to solids and liquids and gas.
Then there are those in the realm of the arts--those with a need to feed
Everything they feel, everything they are into colour, into word, into song.
I do believe the latter of these torments as much as it contents.
I did not sleep last night; verses filled my head.
Try as I might, I could not get to bed.
And so, at about 5:55--just as morning arrived
I creaked my way down the stairs
Disturbing the day in its opening prayers
I touched a few notes, struck a few chords
Then listened and sat in remorse
At the mediocrity of my ability
to express, to confess and to progress.
The need to create, it runs through my veins
But how awful it feels when it all ends in vain.
I write out my thoughts, I sing out my cause
But can't seem to get the meaning across.
That's why you will find that those of the arts,
Whether inside or out, they struggle and starve
For the extent of their part is to open their scars
But what's actually heard seems rather absurd
And thus are expressions of the heart.
Created: Oct 25, 2010ceelum Document Media