It might sound cliched, but I have a dream
An impossible dream? To some, it may seem
In a field of desires, but quite unforgiving
If one’s goal in life is to make a good living
As an artist, how quaint, would the naysayers say
To some it is folly, indulgent child’s play
But the doer? To us, it’s our soul up for grabs
Each dismissal a blade, at our heart as it stabs
But compelled as creators, with passion and vim
We venture out, blindly, going out on that limb
It takes more than passion, it’s more an obsession
We say it out loud, no more secret confessions
To think it a hobby, no more than amusement
To discourage with glibness, and stark disabuse-ment
Emboldens the ones that have wills made of fire
It rallies our spirit, and it drives our goals higher
They offer us pennies, devalue our time
As if asking for payment is committing a crime
I shout “Your contempt, keep like hand in your pocket!
To think this a trinket, like junk, one should hock it?!”
Forget all those cynics, how they circle like vultures
Instead where’s the thanks for enrichment of culture?
Do they not realize how deprived and bereft
Would our lives be if all of the artists just - left…
So I ask everyone with this grim misconception
That art is a form of indulged self-expression
How dull our world seems without color or music
If drab were an option, would everyone choose it?
I think that the artist, for better or worse
Is vital to life, though as artist - we’re cursed
So in toil we shall work till our last breath on earth
And hope for the day, we'll be paid what we’re worth!