The Foolish Beat

The artist at work ignores the world

Half dark and half light invade the room as he draws the beat from his heart to his head to his ear to his screen and to hopefully…the world

Letting go of a creation is the singlemost difficult thing to do

Once you put it out there, it no longer belongs to you

The editing process leaves the room as the impulse of critique and appreciation sit in the stands

Where to find comfort in this hodgepodge of art is the silliest of propositions

The artist is never, will never, shall never be satisfied

He is the Angelica of his own personal Hamilton

Writing like he’s running out of time, all the time

Never knowing where the next muse will surface or condemn

The suffering is immeasurable and the expectations are at best unrealistic

Dreams seldom come with a cheap price tag and sometimes the cost is damage to the soul and pressure on the psyche

And then it appears

The lyric

The foolish beat

The word

The rhythm

The rhyme

The perfect creation for that moment

The artist breathes a sigh of relief

It is ready

It can leave his hands now

Just then, he hears the note of doubt and it resonates more than any measure in the piece

He starts agains

The world goes grey

Jumping into the well of inspiration, hoping to skim a mere bucket of brilliance for the masterpiece

In the room

Away from the world

Half dark and half light invade it as he draws the beat from his heart to his head to his ear to his screen and to hopefully…the world

Someday

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