Any creative endeavor has a down side.
You put up your creations, give your all, try.
Then the self incriminations appear.
Dirty and shakey. You aren't good enough.
What you make falls apart and stains your hands.
Why waste your time doing anything. Be better.
Or don't be at all. My arms and legs are falling off.
Maybe if I did my best I'd be a millionaire.
Instead I lie here in the dust. broken
Just barely off the ground while others seem to fly.
But there it is. We are all on a spiral journey.
One minute we are on top and then we make a mistake and swerve.
It only takes one. To think that you aren't enough.
But don't be hard on yourself. You are ok. They are not.
Forgiveness, praise, adoration, and fame
Balance with pride, humbleness, pity and infamy.
My hands are rough from cement. Holes.
The toxicity of Art and Life grinding at my bones.
Wearing me away.
Then in the scraps I found renewal.
In a fit I put together a slit with an opening filled. Twice.
Then I stuccoed them.
What will become of all of us? What will be left?