THE ARTIST

The artist toils away trying to find meaning in everything.

The artist toils away with their symbolism, their lessons, their expressions.

But, with each canvas filled, creativity becomes a spasmodic monster writhing around in the brain.

Expression becomes it's sole goal, answers become its intention.

But, the gnawing hunger in this monster's belly can never be quenched. 

Years you can go on, trying to find how to express the infinity, the empty.

However, the canvas of life is blank, and cannot be coloured upon; it is perfect the way it is.

It's rich in a mish mosh of colors, and it's creator is the created.

Every brush stroke resides in our molecules, our hair, the garbage outside, the toe nail freshly clipped, the tears sorrowfully wept, the smile zestfully widened.

It's something that isn't observable, or able to be told. It's a feeling the artist can never feel.

The artist as a label is already hindering. 

The artist can never be satisfied.

But a human, no, a thing who realizes the canvas is already painted, yet simultaneously blank, will always be satisfied.