Theres a painter down the road,
gritted teeth, forehead riddled in coal.
His fingers stitch the carbon ink,
smile fading into the sink.
And yet he stays, eyes married to the blended crayon.
Because a painter’s only known for the finished piece.
not the cracked hands and blistered feet.
The dancer swings through her gloom,
tears stained old against the moon.
Every movement, delicate silk,
hatched in dirt and tartan filth.
And yet, she glides through the music.
Tiptoed fury screaming, ‘don’t loose it.’
Because a dancer’s only known for the finished performance,
not the buildup to the entrance.
The poet writes beyond the light.
Suffering silence, burning bright.
The poem scatters along the page,
and yet not once, sits in her brain.
So, still, she spews through open wounds.
because a poet’s only known for the pages in a book.
Not the battle, not the hook.
A painter jokes, the dancer chokes, the poet sleeps through thoughtful beats.
They understand, all at once,
That this is their life, together but not.
To be known, but not seen.
To feel, but not mean.
Because an artists only visible through succession lens,
and theirs is broken beyond mend.
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