The Artist

He was a pupil of art

Sipping melancholy

Searching his eager soul

For ardent Melodies

Sought after sleepless nights

Fought imaginary fights

On his empty music sheets

He hoped to divulge his plights

Missing something vital, deep

Something that upset his sleep

Was it worth the try and fall?

Was he another black sheep?

Inspiration, what an enemy!

Forbidding him his journey

His piano keys he thrashed

Tormented by the irony

Could he find someday a muse?

With whom he shall shun his blues

Will he grasp the treasure dear?

Or all his dreams he shall lose?