The Artist Poem by Matt Tinsley

A canvas wrought my antidote
My pouring thought in anecdote
All my worries and still some doubled
All my cares that aged my troubles

Leopards leap across the contours
In the foreground sits the hours
My palette dries and sticks to brush
My masterpiece stays soft and lush

A frame or two concludes the tour
Pastels excel and help to lure
Finished products display their glory
Hallways fill with auctioneers and stories

Few coins jingle in the outcome of my pouch
The minimum requirement drown in my couch
The stained and strained cushions remain parched
Stiffened pillows fail to arch

Cheap crumbs and scraps keep
Heart still a beat
But barely and unfairly as I gain a grip
Tossing and turning all night until I trip

Sun wakes then I after curfew and a mess
Ultraviolet has never inspired me less
I rise before too late and head to studio
A brush contains my fate as its bristles flee and flow

Another time to paint away
Make colors fill the day
Another moment to seize as stern
Make picture breath and burn

Every day a struggle to eat
Profession fails to present wheat
Bread is stale as is my head
Sweat and tears make all else said

Rather to suffer in a loving grove
Than flourish in a lair I loathe
And even still with what cost will
I'd more prefer to fall victim to the till

The agonizing strips of loss
No more coincide with those I've tossed
Than the none that support day by day
To the validation that this is the way

My belly rumbles and I listen dear
The muscles shake and not for fear
Concentration is only a blur
Abstract can only barely concur

When my debt rose amidst in tangled bows
I was left with one option to tend the rows
Career became a memory I missed
And gratitude unclenched its fist

Still looking back from the day I gave in
Still with the mind I've had since the end
I know what makes me whole
The traits no one can say they stole

My canvas wrought my antidote
My pouring thought in anecdote
All my worries and still some doubled
All my cares that aged my troubles