The Artiste

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A little poem dedicated to all you guy's and all the other artist's in the world. :)

Submitted: August 13, 2011

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Submitted: August 13, 2011

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I've never fitted in
Nor have I belonged
Let alone
Been understood
So I don't go to the places
Where the crowd's
Have always thronged

I rest my aching soul and feet
As I sit on benches
In the street
Or grab a bite to eat
In café's
Watching that old world
Go by
Over all the day's

Yes it's true that my clothes
Have seen better days
As I've wandered many
Lonely streets at night's
So cold

At home
No longer
Does my fragile existence confuse
When suddenly I find my muse
As I may watch movies
Read literature and plays
Paint, write, draw
Or sing or strum a guitar

I am the artiste, the clown, the poet, the rebel
The tortured genius
And so on

I will be at ease
Only when I am recognised, accepted and adored

But until that day
I will continue
To not go to the place's
Where the crowd's
Have always thronged.

By W A Andrews13/8/2011


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