And the rich will still sleep soundly on his bed,
As the sick will still die on his.
And the poor will only get poorer, and the world itself,
already burdened by the evil it created, will still go on oblivious
of the work I freely did for them.
But still I will make the art with more passion than what I could muster.
But still, the felon will steal, the murderer will kill, the victim will dry out of tears.
The politician thirsts for money as the wolf thirsts for blood.
The oceans will rise, the winds will blow stronger than we can believe,
the earth will move and crack and break, and thousands of lives will die in vain as I
sit safely in a dark, cold room making art.
And my music will fall on deaf ears,
and my painting will hang quietly in an empty room,
and my poem will be buried on my desk.
But I will make my art. And continue to do so. Tirelessly, carefully, fiercely,
despite being dismissed
by the entirety as a vain attempt to ride in the circus of existence.
Because the world is unaware that by their ignorance,
they have denied themselves the beauty of their time.
They have shunned themselves from the light of hope and God.
They have closed their windows from the glimpse of a future in which all things are good and without
suffering.
They have shut themselves from the very purpose of life itself.
We, the unknown, obscure, selfless and neglected artists
sacrificed our humanity to offer the things that manifest the beauty of living life,
amidst the suffering and inequities.
I am an artist. I will make art. And if the world should choose to see, their heads will be
turned to the sky.
And the tears will be wiped from their faces.
And the heavy and suffering will be carried.
And they will see that the beauty is greater than the suffering.
And they will see that they have to keep living.
And they will keep living.