The Failure Poem by Sheena Blackhall

When I was young my time on art was spent,
It was my love, I was its faithful bride,
But genius with the paint brush was denied
My hand proved useless, failed to represent
My inward visions, I could not present
A perfect painting, though I daily tried;
No prayer, no practice could that want provide
Art crucifies its failures, nothing's lent
To soften such a lack, to dull the need
To paint with talent, be amongst the best
Tonot be mediocre, but be great
See vanquished ego, watch it squirm and bleed
Ambition savages the torn breast:
Life's lost its lustre, gold, is silver plate