Artists
Budding artists
Failed artists
Successful artists -
Whatever that means
Are hungry beings,
They crave
Whatnot.
A match stick lightens
Their gut
And mind you
Not one but countless
Such matchsticks
At a moment
At different moments
Throughout their life -
Whatever that means
Burn them from within
Until the fire
Either spills out
Or
Blasts out
Of
Ways they want
Or they might not want
As well.
But this fire
Is like those burning
In temples since ages
Protected in glass by
People's beliefs
Proclaiming itself as an
Immortal specimen of
Somebody.
Here, the artist is that
Somebody, you know.
The glass, I would like
To say is,
What the artists seeks
From the world
In the form of a
Protection -
He could protect himself
Forever
But not all artists
Can do that,
Not until a moment
Of utter liberation.
Till then, I believe,
Or would want to believe
The artist keeps churning
Within,
And then
Someday steps in
A glass.
Who is there for him
When he not only wants
But needs.
I say that is investment
Of its own
The investment is the
Fuel he is looking for
And once it comes
It's his fucking duty
To the glass, to himself
To the world, to his art
To forget everything and
Work.