I sat in my room,
A rollup of green
Perched between my lips,
Bellowing away.
Above the clouds and gusts of wind,
I'd write these words.
I'm an artist for work.
It's hard.
There's always a worry for stability.
That worry now sits as the shadow of my works.
All impure,
Tainted by fear and anxiety.
Success is a goal so hard fought for
That I only see my true self in my poetry.
The one haven I've left for myself.
Working as an artist is hard. For me personally, it feels as though I've lost my spark, always thinking on whether my art would help my career. My poetry is the thing I publicise the least, and as a result, it's the only bit of art that feels like a hobby and not work.
The only place I can truly find art without any goal but expression.
Now to keep attempting to rekindle my fire for the rest of my art.