There are starving artists, yes.
But sometimes I think them more nourished,
Healthier,
Wealthier,
Than many with more dollars to their name,
And food to their claim.

Because at her worst, you see,
The starving artist still has this,
At least--
She has her ideas;
Her work;

Her art,
I mean.

The starving artist might be poor,
Losing in the box score
When all is quantified and qualified for measures of
'success'

But the starving artist is free.
He is alive,
He is allowed to be.

And he has his art,
His heart.

Because the worst kind of starving there can be,
You see,
Is to be stale out of ideas--
To be wallowing in writer's block
Staring at the blank canvas in shock
Holding the pen above the paper,
Cocked.

And unable to fire,
To release,
To express.

The worst kind of starving artist,
Instead,
Feels repressed.

The worst kind of starvation
Is malnourishment,
Not of the soul,
But of the heart--

Of art.