No More to Outpour

Oh! the wretched artist who has no more to pour out,
With the spout of his heart clogged and his mind bogged
And conscience dogged by guilt with silt building up
In his forlorn soul with gaping hole that can’t be filled!
What is he to do with the shrew complaining in his brain
That he should draw in awe, painfully paint till he faints,
Play piano till the break of day, and all without dismay?
Oh! but he’s spent and bent under a load of uncreativity,
And there’s no more to give to live his living part in art,
So he sits with bits and pieces flying around in his head,
Bouncing off the walls and bed, but with nothing said . . .
Nothing to be said in his sad condition void of ambition;
So in contrition he lowers his eyes in floorward position
In silent admission of being a musician without a song,
An indolent poet now when once he’d been quite potent,
Nothing to be sculpted or carved, so starved is his spirit;
Oh! the wretched artist who has no more to pour out!
Ah! but perhaps there is something to pour in to begin
To live once again! After all, even artists need to feed!

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