The Artist waits, breathing deeply,
Pencil poised above the paper.
Images grip her, alluring her to tell their story.
Battles rage ‘tween fearsome pirates, horses race from untold horrors,
Magic glitters on a fairy’s pale hand.

And she fumbles with her pencil,
And soon crumbles up her latest attempt at
A Masterpiece.
Everything’s been done before, everything’s so simple,
Nothing is dramatic, detailed enough
To soothe the artist’s longing
To go further in her art than she has ever gone before.

Then it hits her, hits her hard,
And she awakes from her reverie with a start.
It’s   all   fake.  It’s not real.
The things she dreamed up with her mind, but loved with all her heart.
Everything she’s shaped… given life…
Everything she draws… or reads… or writes,
It’s not real.
Just some stupid Fantasy.

She sits there, sighing deeply,
Paper blank before her eyes.
But she then realizes,
Abruptly,
That then, without a doubt,
Those things may not be real, but for her they’re really there!
All the art that she’s critiqued and
All the worlds she’s created,
Serve a Purpose.

They help to soothe an Artist’s troubled heart.