Uninspired

My canvas is a splatter of black and white,

even in this plain piece of work they call it art.

The little splatters that made no sense,

somehow someone said it breathed pain.

What do they know about my art?

I had spent three years painting my soul on canvases,

Black and white,

fiery red hues and calming ocean blue,

lush green imbued with bright yellow irises.

In these great mix of colours,

it was more than a little splitter splatter,

it was more than “pain”.

Today I’m sitting in front of my canvas,

with withering fields and torn up work,

everything I touched turn to ashes,

and every colour I painted became a faded grey.

My legs crossed,

head pressed against the canvas,

the only thing imprinted on this work

they call art

and the soul of the artist

is: