Not A Bad Artist Poem by Parisha Shukla

What calls an art—a Bad Art?
Didn't think of the existence of any, did I?

In this symphony of melodies, beauty around me,
Whether it belongs to any creature, nature or just one in many.
Wonders how ironic it is...

Who calls the one—a Bad Artist?
The one that is judged by billions?

Judged every moment,
everywhere,
By the people who hide that art underneath materialistic things.
Wonders how hurtful it would be...

What calls a thing—an Art?
The one that is praised by millions of eyes?

I know every eye,
The eye that carries a person,
the person's beauty,
their thoughts,
their euphoria.
Still you dare to hide your scars?

Never knew how it felt,
Until you realise it someday—
The day when you judge yourself the hardest—
When you try to adjust in the crowd,
When you feel inferior in this Imperfect Perfect world.
But no one looked towards the Artist...

And unknowingly,
someone whispers—
'I can't be a Bad Artist for you, my child.'
I looked around
Found myself, all alone.

And, I felt—
Truly.