Book Of Verses

Wasted Ink

He sits at a desk in a room darkened,
The will of his words refusing to harken,
The strokes of his brush that still will not soften,
The sounds of his notes still far far from flawless.
Every night that plagues every Artist.
He's often critiqued on the way that he thinks,
Why he says that true love is just something we think.
Why he hues the sunrise in shades darker than pink.
Why his notes are always missing essential links.
Now he takes his rage out on his bottle of ink.
His thoughts fade to rage in a flurry of words.
His temper paints his desk in grayscale colors.
His crescendo ascends all, surpassing the birds.
And he looks at his work, and to him it's absurd.
He's thoroughly convinced, and now he is depressed,
The weight of his head bearing down on his neck.
His demons approach him, taunting and heartless,
They try, and they fail to destroy the Artist.
He spits ink in their eye, stares them down dauntless.
He sees his work again, and he begins to think,
"What would people see in such Wasted Ink?"