I'm sitting still imagining blue flames
Moving serpentine-like, setting ablaze
The entire witty core of a poet's soul
Treacherous ruby lips wispering more...
To be or not to be an artist
Is that the question?
To be subjected to sweet torment allday
Beating your head against the wall, I say
Seaching like a miner for a diamond in the rough
Wondering whether your art will ever truly amount
To the giants that have paved the road you take
Are we secretly Shakespeares waiting for a break?
Before inspiration will strike smoother than any flux
Am i a performing creature, waiting to relax?