The Fantasy
The artist stands back with brush in hand.
A masterpiece that’ll cause all to stand.
A great applause then filled his head.
Beautiful and elegant, the crowd always said.
Kings and queens hurried to his side.
Masters of the past, who long ago died
to obtain the fame he had right now,
pleaded his secret and asked him how.
The artist smiled then back to his work.
Sometimes the fantasy made him feel a jerk.
But only to himself, no one else ever knew
the motivating force he always drew
within his mind, within his soul.
Reality’s fame always came too slow
and receiving the world’s recognition
is never as glorious as his mind’s invention.
So again he withdraws back into that mind.
A place more fulfilling where he’ll always find
total acceptance, everyone loves him there.
A towering self-image and he’ll always wear
exquisite attire and a beauty on his arm
and unto himself he sees little harm
for the artist continues with brush in hand.
Motivated by illusion where he’ll always stand
unique among the normal, a sight to behold.
Judged crazy by mediocrity but they all sold
their rights to eternity, a fantasy you see,
reserved for the artist in you and me.
I wrote this back in ‘88’ when I was a artist and quite delusional.
