Where do you bury your artistic voice?
Is it beneath the laden of existence?
Or the strifes of the days?
Perhaps, in ties of being liked?
Standing ovations of the crowd?
Where, then?
O, do tell, where?
Your true colour,
The soul of your art,
The writhe of your words,
Where shall one find,
Your true artistic sound?

I read the words.
Mere words. Too many words.
Collocations and phrases.
All laid and versed,
On the splotch of the canvas.
I read. And reread
The abysmal void,
The taste of being a fraud.
An imposter, no less.
In too many words.
Yet, soulless.