The Creative process

The failed artist.

Knows in his heart he is not a true artist

picks up the brush to prove himself wrong.

Studying a void and sailing light years to separate dimension. Unknown depths and hues speckle and shine.

Horizons float, melt and marble like birds.

Seeds sprout the glory song and fling shells of their cribs.

Stitches weave from bloom to bloom.

Spurts of aortic ice chime like temple song.

Lava notes rise up in a riot of fire.

 

What if it fails.

 

Dimensions zip shut.

Ships crash.

Hughes dull and the horizon flat lines.

Sprouts shrivel and fall silent.

The white void is just a void again.

Head down and tools at his side.

He knows he is not a true artist.

He picks up the brush.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8hspif/how_could_you/dymd62l/

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8hpdew/radiation/dymcgh9/?context=0