This was something i wrote a while ago but felt really proud of. I wasn't really blazed when i wrote it but y'know... y'know? Artistry At Work Definition definitive, A contradiction, superlative, Exemplary of what should be, Art is art in eyes that see. For a true artist creates, Not in pigments or page, In scores of music notes, Or paragraphs they wrote, But art with people, Like stained glass steeples, But harder to get right, And messier at first sight, Though yielding its fruit, Its result's sweet juice, Is the end if gotten to, Of the graph of absolute. Art in media, Not mass hysteria, Can be any form and any shape, If done right, it can be forgave, Though harsh are those, Who the artist chose, To review the works that change the world, For they hate and loath that new found change, It damns them, condemns them, and seems so strange. But art is medium, In long lived tedium, And the end production, Of some holy seduction, Lives long after it should have died, Long after its fathers sired. Given in respect, And what they expect, The writer creates, Upon a blank page, What is felt and disturbed, By sane and perturbed, Crazed machinations, A great fascination, The writer an artist, The flames-of-change-startist, Loved and revered, Makes some people scared, Wielding his power, Long past his last hour, As his mind is felt after, His soul rises through the rafters. And then the musician, His ungodly position, Of warping vibration, For spiritual libation, Loving insane, Come sparks of his brain, Like notes upon sheets, Pedals upon feet, Guitars upon frets, Bands upon sets, Both felt and believed, All tensed and relieved, The paradox it imbibes, Is of some liquid fire, Of taken a chance, Everybody get up. Get up and dance. Finally the mundane, Wording of sane, The true artist of eyes, Becoming known after he dies. His glory unwanted, Living undaunted, As tortured his mind, Forces beauty of its own kind, Into the world that deserves it not, Smoking, ashen, brimstone and hot. But the artist he knows, That in others souls, What they are ignorant of, Of the greatness of his love, That holds him down from angelic ranks, Into a suicide among the river banks. The trueness of art, Is the falseness of farce, Only discovered, When there is no other, No other choice to be taken, Or other beauty to be faken.