by Nick Gisburne
The smiling faces all pretend to care.
He knows they cannot wait to walk away.
He longs for dirt, the darkness of despair,
To stain another soulless, sterile day.
How strong, how brave, they tell him. Wrong, again.
His life is not a positive, a choice.
Incurable conditions maketh men,
But he, in his, refuses to rejoice.
His yesterdays were paved with pride, with art.
Today he finds no feeling in his hands.
No mask of empty courage can outsmart
The fear, the failure, no one understands.
Despising what his body has become,
The artist sits, alone, in silence, numb.
