Ink Spilled Doubts

Arts.

Brilliance and beauty made to be

Consumed by all, yet inevitably

Doomed to fall.

Enshrouding the broken and unspoken

Founders: The Artists, The Actors, The Authors.

God's messengers, yet the devil's passengers whom

Hide behind Hannya

In broad daylight,

Juxtaposing what is right - for you see,

Knowledge and talent and

Labour of love,

Mean naught for any guarantee;

No name, nor fame, not within a game against

Opponents in the pockets of those in

Power. You are left to

Question your worth and right to continue

Returning to this fight, when all around you all you

See, are the young and

Talented carefree hoarding accolade after accolade, whilst here,

Uncapturable little old me works and fights and slaves away in

Vein, unable to obtain anything to my name - and really - is it

Worth the pain, when there's little to no monetary gain? - In defiance,

Xenial words, with venial truths, whisper in my ear:

Yes. Your work is worth the fight, be it brush, script or pen, the arts will always be - your

Zen.